Yours, Tommie
by CatalynMJ88
Summary: Titanic's maiden voyage is more dramatic than Olympic's, long before the iceberg! Thomas Andrews contends with premonitions and problems with the ship, a business associate's arrogance, an unusual new friendship, and the heartrending plight of a bright and beautiful young passenger. But in the midst of it all, he finds time to write a little note to his wife Helen each day.
1. The Ship of Dreams

**I. The Ship of Dreams**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**My frustrations with fanfiction:** Okay, neither extra spaces nor asterisks nor horizontal lines are giving me the extra spaces for scene breaks that I want, and will desperately need in later chapters. In a last ditch effort, I'm just putting in "(line)". Sorry.

**Condensed "thank you" A/N: **For all who have subbed/favorited, those e-mail alerts brighten my day! Love you guys! Hope you're enjoying the story! As for my reviewers, THANK YOU SO MUCH. More specific thanks are in the References (ch. 14.) I still welcome reviews or PM's on the story- short or long, praise or critiques. I may have hit "Complete" months ago but honestly, it's still a work in progress!

(line)

_Wednesday, 10 April, 1912_

My dearest Nellie,

Though we were working down to the last minute, (and then some,) I must say that _Titanic_'s send-off was nothing short of dazzling. Thousands came down to the docks only to watch and wave. The passengers boarding were often heard gasping in awe. I saw several small children become distressed in the hubbub on deck, and I was relieved that our Elba did not have to endure such a trying day. Nonetheless, I wish you both could have been here; perhaps we shall make a holiday of _Britannic_'s maiden voyage in a few years.

By the time you read this, you will have heard about our close call with the SS _New York. _Fortunately, we aboard _Titanic _were quite safe. Indeed, I was more concerned for the damage the _New York_ might have sustained, had she hit_._ Between this near collision at Southampton, and the need for tenders at Cherbourg tonight and Queenstown tomorrow, I admit that I look forward to the day when docks are redesigned to better accommodate ships of the Olympic class's size.

I have much to do and much to plan during this voyage. Yet I promise I will take a little time every day to write to you, my love. When I return home, I want you to read these ramblings and feel as if you were here with me all along. Know that I love you with all my heart and I miss you every day.

Send Elba her daddy's love.

Yours,

Tommie

(line)

Moments before the noon departure from Southampton, Thomas Andrews slipped away from the promenade where Captain Smith and other prominent men personally greeted the first-class passengers. Thomas's job description for the next three weeks was quite convenient. He was to carefully note Titanic's performance and log any suggestions for improvement- anything at all, from the color of the deck chairs to the rivets holding together the very ship. Therefore, he could roam his prized creation freely, and excuse his absence from stifling first-class niceties on the grounds of "work."

He went down to the engine rooms. The rhythmic churning of endless rows of forty-foot reciprocating engines was just the thing to temper his nervous energy. He spent much of his time taking notes and speaking with the ship's engineers, but he also stole away a few moments on the catwalk, just taking it all in. Even in the depths of the ship, with no outside view, there was an obvious sensation that they were _moving._ Somehow, one could sense the push of Southampton Water rushing past the hull. The hum of the engines vibrated the grate beneath Thomas's feet.

A foreman came up from the boiler room with some minor questions, and Thomas offered to accompany an engineer in going down and taking a look. The heat was intense, the air dense with soot. But Thomas relished this environment, and ended up taking a full page of careful notes in the boiler rooms alone. After all, this was the place from which his ship acquired her very lifeblood!

She was in motion once more, no longer on trial runs or on the quiet delivery trip from Belfast to Southampton. This was now her maiden voyage. She had come to life. Thomas's most ambitious imaginings, as a young boy in a handmade rowboat on the lough thirty years ago, were coming to life.

The press had already given _Titanic_ many epithets. Thomas only liked some of them, and there was just one that he really loved: "the ship of dreams." For indeed she was. The third class passengers' dreams of starting life over again in a New World; the more prosperous passengers' dreams of making their week-long Atlantic crossing in state-of-the-art comfort and style; and Thomas's dream of crafting a beautiful, innovative vessel that could make so many others' dreams a reality…

When he'd taken three pages of careful notes in both the boiler rooms and engine rooms, and his nerves had eased to a grand and steady joy, he ascended to the passenger decks again. His pocket watch read 3:30. That long? They were halfway to Cherbourg already! No wonder his hands around the watch were tinged with soot.

Children peeked out of doorways in a third-class hallway on G Deck, staring at him curiously. The suit coat draped over his arm, his fine waistcoat and silk tie, his expensive pocket watch and notebook, all belied the fact that he was not a common worker- even if he'd clearly just spent considerable time amongst men shoveling coal.

He smiled and waved. "Afternoon to ye, children. Is the ship to yer liking?" he asked. They nodded shyly. He continued on his way, taking a back route up to his suite, deftly avoiding the Grand Staircase until he could make himself look more presentable.

"Mr. Andrews! How are the boilers running today?"

Of course, taking the route less traveled by passengers often meant taking the favored route of crew, and Thomas was not surprised to run across Captain Smith in a hall on D deck. "Just grand, sir," he answered. The older gentleman's blue eyes shone with mirth as he took in Thomas's disheveled appearance, his fine linen dress shirt damp and smudged, his face flushed, his wavy brown hair turned curly in the steam. Surely that's how Smith knew to ask about the boilers.

"I'm headed to the smoking room for a bit before greeting the passengers at Cherbourg. Would you care to join me?"

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I need to wash up. Then I was planning to visit second-class before dinner, ask around for any troubles they've had getting settled in."

"You will ask the first-class passengers the same, of course?"

"Of course. But I'll see them at dinner tonight, and I figure they won't be shy with their comments then."

Smith let out a short, booming laugh. "Very true! Some days I'd rather face a press conference in New York than the likes of them! Although, speaking of New York…" The captain paused at a turn in the hallway. "I trust you noticed back at Southampton when the engines were briefly reversed?"

"I assumed there was some minor trouble in leaving the harbor."

Smith gave a crisp nod. "Yes, very minor- for us at least. Your ship's wake was big enough to snap the moorings of the SS_ New York._ She nearly hit us at one point."

Thomas frowned. "Nearly?"

"Her stern was within ten feet of our hull before the tugboat pulled her back. She would have hit well before then, if we hadn't done some clever maneuvering. Not that it would have hurt _Titanic _at all, what with those 'unsinkable' compartments, eh?" And with that, Smith turned on well-polished heel and headed for the smoking room. Thomas continued up to his stateroom.

On the one hand, Thomas was grateful to have an experienced captain, unflappable in the face of averted disaster. On the other hand, while the watertight compartments were a tremendous safety advancement, they certainly wouldn't have prevented a delayed departure if _Titanic _had collided with another ship. He wished Smith would show a little more caution, especially after that incident that occurred under his watch with _Olympic_ last year…

Not to mention, the boiler room workers in the breached compartment could have suffered severe steam burns, or even drowned. The construction of _Titanic _had cost nine shipyard workers their lives_._ Thomas would be relieved if she made it through as many voyages as possible without costing any more.

He arrived in his stateroom and shut the door. Before undressing, he sat at his desk, which had sleek modern lines and was made of fine mahogany. The desk was very large- and by design. There needed to be ample space for working on the ship blueprints. Thomas thought about unrolling a blueprint from a leather case right now, but decided against it. He gazed out the window. Beyond the smooth new glass, he had a portside view of the covered A-deck promenade, then choppy sea and grayish sky.

He pulled out a piece of White Star Line stationery and wrote a quick note to his wife Helen (nicknamed Nellie.) Nothing fancy, just a few things he wished he could share with her right now. He even lightened his account of the _New York _incident, like he might if she were sitting here with him. Granted, if she _were_ here, she would see right through him and get the real story anyway…

The only purpose for such a note was it gave him an excuse to think of his darling wife and beautiful baby daughter for a few moments. This little note wasn't really worth posting at Queenstown, so it's not like it would reach Belfast before Thomas himself returned home.

The French shoreline came into view, but they would have to weigh anchor some distance offshore. _Titanic_'s keel extended too far below the waterline for Cherbourg's docks; her next batch of passengers would be brought aboard by tenders. But these harbor hassles were more or less expected for a ship of hersize. Out in the open sea, nothing would stand in _Titanic_'s way. _That_ would be the fun part, and it was less than a day away now.

Thomas pulled out his pocket watch, absentmindedly rubbing it against a clean spot on his shirtsleeve. _Only one more day…_


	2. Open Sea, Narrow People

**II. Open Sea, Narrow People**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film:** Dialogue from "She is the largest moving object…" to "Is he a passenger?" are from Cameron's _Titanic, _as well as "Take her to sea, Mr. Murdoch; let's stretch her legs" and "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!"

(line)

_Thursday, 11 April, 1912_

My dearest Nellie,

J.P. Morgan cancelled at the last minute; his associate, J. Bruce Ismay did not. I trust you know how I feel about this. In general, however, the passengers are quite pleasant, and so complimentary that it is almost embarrassing.

You already know who's who in first class, of course, so I won't bore you with too many details. I will say the rumours are true; Caledon Hockley does travel with a valet, a dreadfully dour one retired from Scotland Yard. Also, while Margaret Brown is quite outspoken, she is not as unmannered as the rumour mills would have us believe. She listens to others, which is a rare skill in high society these days. When we met at dinner yesterday, she quickly observed not only that my origins are in Ireland, but in County Down particularly! Apparently she is quite involved in charities for the Irish immigrants to America, and has an ear for accents.

Speaking of Ireland, it was good to see her again today, however briefly. Queenstown was far more energetic than Cherbourg. It was like Southampton all over again, only smaller and with tenders. The third class decks will never sound the same again after today! I worked in the mailroom this evening and could hear the lively jigs playing, even from that distance.

I am more determined than ever that you and Elba should accompany me on my next cross-Atlantic business trip, if only so you can feel this thrill of the open sea, this wide-open opportunity, that I can scarcely put into words.

I am forever thinking of you both, my dear. Send Elba her daddy's love.

Yours,

Tommie

(line)

"Take her to sea, Mr. Murdoch; let's stretch her legs."

Captain Smith was in fine form today, in a jet-black jacket with two neat rows of gold buttons, and a brand-new captain's cap perched jauntily atop his white hair. His posture was even more regal than usual, and there was an extra spring in his step as he and First Officer Murdoch headed their separate ways. He gave a hearty nod towards Thomas as they crossed paths on the bridge. The captain was headed for the helm; Thomas, for the view.

They'd shrugged off the gray skies that clung to them in all three harbors. Now, the horizon in all directions shone in robin's egg blue, darkening up and up to navy at the sky's zenith, marked only with the occasional fragile wisp of cirrus clouds. The steady, gentle wind was cool and pure, with only a tinge of sea salt smell, and none of the industrial odors of port.

Passengers were coming out to enjoy the glorious weather. Ladies strolled and chatted, parents taught their children the fine points of spinning yo-yos and tops. Two young men, likely third-class passengers judging by their attire, darted into view and up to the bow. They pointed eagerly down at the water, then out at the limitless view ahead. Though too far away to catch the rest of their conversation, Thomas did hear the fairer-haired of the two shout, "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!" and whoop for joy. Thomas couldn't help but grin at the spectacle.

Until he noticed the lad's feet were balanced on the lowest rung of the deck railing. His center of gravity was above the highest rung and, therefore, one false move could send him toppling into the ocean. For heaven's sake! Were people really so reckless? Thomas started towards the stairs, to go down and ask the lads to step back, when he heard a brash American drawl from just below his shoulder:

"Just takin it in, Mr. Andrews?"

Margaret Brown had appeared beside him on the deck. He nodded in greeting and then glanced again at the bow. The lad's feet were firmly back on deck. Good.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Brown." He turned his attention to her more fully. The short, plump, middle-aged "new money" socialite was dressed to the nines and wearing a feathered hat that, if anything, was wider and more ostentatious than the one she had on when they met yesterday.

"I guess when everything's finally come together, you gotta just stand back and appreciate the finished product for a little while?"

"For a moment, yes," he agreed. Then, remembering something she mentioned at dinner the night before, he asked, "Is that how you felt when the cathedral in Denver was finished last year?"

She smiled, and didn't cover her smile bashfully like many first-class ladies. "Sorta. But I just raised a buncha money for 'em. It's not like I actually helped _build_ the thing." Before Thomas could think of an appropriate reply to such a bold compliment, Mrs. Brown added, "I'm off to a luncheon with some masters of the universe, care to join me?"

"It'd be my pleasure, Mrs. Brown." They set off down the promenade together. She continued to lavish him in praise:

"Ya know, it's a great idea, havin those sliding glass windows on the A-deck promenade. Makes my morning exercise walk a lot less windy!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown."

"And swimming baths on a ship… What'll ya think of next?" she asked playfully.

He felt a bit sheepish. "Well, those we've had on every ship since the _Adriatic, _but I'm glad you've enjoyed them, Mrs. Brown."

"Well aren't you just the picture of politeness!" she shook her head in amusement. "Call me Molly."

"Thank you, Molly. Call me Thomas." He thought of Molly's famous, casual warmth, not to mention what his full first name would sound like in her drawl, and added: "Or Tom, if it suits you."

"Thanks, Tom. Hey," she continued, "The Café Parisian, that's another good one. Gives us late eaters a chance to get a full meal when the saloon's not open."

"That's the idea," he replied pleasantly. "Though I take no credit for that one. The café was all Mr. J. Bruce Ismay's doing."

"Well, what a coincidence!" she beamed as they approached the restaurant's sliding doors. "Mr. Ismay's joinin us for luncheon!"

Thomas felt a bit trapped then. The chairman of the White Star Line was not at the top of his list of preferred mealtime company. To hear Ismay preen in the smoking room every evening would be punishment enough on this journey.

Molly led the way to a table for six. Thomas pulled out his notebook as he sat down. Before he might forget, he jotted, _Add more warning signs on the deck railings, particularly at the bow._ Noticing how warm it was in the cafe, he added, _Café Parisian's windows could create greenhouse effect, especially in summer- consider more ceiling fans or trellises._

"Ah, Mr. Andrews, good to see you again!"

Thomas looked up, and stood to shake hands. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hockley." Caledon Hockley was a handsome, dark-haired man of about thirty. The only son of an American steel magnate, he rivaled J.J. Astor for the title of richest man aboard. Thomas had met him yesterday morning; there had been a concern about the color of the deck chairs in Hockley's private promenade. Thomas had not, however, met the two elegantly dressed, redheaded women now flanking the wealthy businessman.

"May I introduce Mrs. Ruth DeWitt Bukater, my future mother-in-law," Hockley gestured to the shorter and elder of the two ladies, who looked rather lacy and conservative. She was perhaps only a few years older than Thomas, but her face was careworn. "Ruth, this fine gentleman is Thomas Andrews, _Titanic_'s chief architect."

"Pleasure to meet you, madam," said Thomas.

Ruth's penciled eyebrows arched when she heard his faint brogue. She extended her gloved hand for a gentlemanly kiss. As Thomas obliged, she gave him a cool-sounding, "Charmed, Mr. Andrews, I'm sure."

"And _this_," Hockley beamed, putting his arm around the younger woman, "is my lovely little wife-to-be, Rose DeWitt Bukater."

"Pleasure to meet you, Rose." As they repeated the greeting ritual, Thomas privately marveled at Rose's beauty. He wasn't the type to ogle women. But the sight of this young woman was like the sight of a rainbow, or a flower of her namesake unexpectedly encountered on a vine against a drab stone wall: a surprising glimpse of pure beauty. Rose was curvy, fashionably dressed, and could not have been older than twenty. She had wide green eyes, lustrous auburn hair, and the features and complexion of a porcelain doll.

"I hope we're not interrupting you, sir." Rose ventured a glance at Thomas's notebook, still open on the table. Even her voice was quite becoming: a melodic alto, her accent clear and not too beholden to either side of the Atlantic.

Before Thomas could answer, a booming, bragging Englishman's voice cut in with the reply: "It's impossible _not _to interrupt Thomas Andrews; the man is constantly planning improvements for _Titanic_ and her sister ships!"

Thomas instinctively reached down and shut his notebook, lest Ismay either criticize or praise his notes in front of the passengers. J. Bruce Ismay was a stout, mustachioed man ten years Thomas's senior. He moved with the sure strides of an athlete, but his physique was past its prime. He was perpetually slightly jaundiced in appearance… and perpetually smug. It was hard for Thomas to remember a time when he didn't dislike him.

The introductions started all over again: between Hockley's party and Ismay, between Hockley's party and Molly, between Ismay and Molly. The stewards brought them all drinks and breadsticks in the meantime. They took their seats, and Ismay began the conversation right where it left off. Incidentally, it was his favorite topic: maritime boasting!

"I trust you are all enjoying your voyage aboard _Titanic _thus far. She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history." Ismay paused for emphasis. "And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up." A gesture and a nod towards Thomas, as if to say, _Your turn._

Thomas fiddled with his notebook, bashful. The easiest way out of this would be to inflate Ismay's own ego. "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's." The Englishman nodded approvingly. Thomas continued, "He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is!" Despite himself, he'd gotten caught up in talking about the ship of dreams. He slapped the table for emphasis. "Willed into solid reality."

"Here, here!"

As the stewards took their meal orders, Molly joked about the sexism of calling ships "she," and the DeWitt Bukater women had a quiet disagreement over Rose lighting a cigarette. Hockley intervened, not only snubbing out the cigarette but even ordering his fiancee's meal for her. Leave it to Molly to then say what the rest of them were thinking:

"You gonna cut her meat for her too, Cal?"

Then she eased the tension the same way Thomas had minutes earlier. She turned the attention on Ismay, who was always ready to bask in it.

"Hey, uh, who thought of the name _Titanic_?" She gave Thomas a knowing look, then turned to Ismay with a broad grin. "Was it _you_, Bruce?"

Ismay puffed himself up in his wicker chair. "Yes, actually." Thomas and Molly shared a quiet chuckle, which Ismay either missed or deliberately ignored. "I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength."

Rose interrupted, "Do you know of a Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you."

Ruth chastised her daughter instantly, but Thomas could scarcely contain his laughter. He could only imagine what Rose would say if she knew of Ismay's original name for the third Olympic liner! Rose skulked off in a swish of fine silk and adolescent indignation, causing Ismay to shift in his chair and Ruth to give them all a prim, but strained apology.

"She's a pistol, Cal," Molly remarked. Coming from her, it sounded like a true compliment. "Hope you can handle her!"

"Well I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, won't I, Mrs. Brown?"

Thomas was sitting beside Molly, and he noticed her physically tense at Hockley's remark. He couldn't really blame her. A well-bred woman didn't work; she socialized, entertained others, and perhaps gave public support to charities if it suited her. What access would she have to the wider world, without free reign to read the works of the day?

"Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?" Ismay asked.

Open mouth, insert foot. "Erm… no, I don't believe he is…" Thomas muttered.

Molly ran damage control. "So, Tom," she asked lightly, "you got a family waitin for ya back in Ireland?"

Ismay pounced again. "Mr. Andrews's uncle, Lord William Pirrie, is one of the owners of Harland & Wolff shipbuilding company, where Andrews himself is Managing Director. His father is a member of the Privy Council of Ireland. His elder brother-"

Thomas interrupted before Molly would have asked about Ismay cutting his meat for him. "Why yes, Molly, I do. My wife, Helen, is in my humble opinion the brightest, loveliest woman in all of Ireland. And we have a baby daughter, Elba, turned a year old this past November."

Ismay harrumphed. "Really, Andrews! How is it we've worked together all this time and I never knew you had a daughter?"

His reply was cool. "Well, since Elba has yet to attain prominence in business or politics…"

"I bet she's a real cutie, Tom," Molly interrupted.

A nice move on Molly's part. Not that the other half of their luncheon party was particularly interested; Hockley had stalked off to retrieve his fiancée from the promenade, while Ruth stared anxiously after them both.

Thomas leaned back in his chair and smiled at Molly. "She's the prettiest babe in all the world, Molly, I can assure you."

"What did you say you call her?" Ismay asked. He still looked peeved at Thomas's remark about societal prominence. "Elna, was it?"

"Elba."

"_Elba,_" he smirked. "How curious! Is that some sort of Irish name?"

"It's only a nickname, an acronym of her initials," Thomas replied. "Her full name is Elizabeth Law Barber Andrews." To himself, he added: _Is that civilized and British-sounding enough for you, Mr. Ismay?_

The stewards arrived with the main course, just as Hockley returned with a more subdued young Rose. The way this luncheon was going, Thomas found himself looking forward the relative tranquility of the engine rooms.

As if reading his mind, Molly turned to him and muttered, "Never a dull moment, huh, Tom?"


	3. Names

**III. Names**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**A note about this chapter: **There is more than one chapter for April 12th, so only one opens with a note from Tommie to Nellie, and the others open with flashbacks to their home life. (Same goes for April 14th.)

**About Helen: **My very casual internet-research turned up virtually nothing about Helen Reilly Barbour Andrews except key dates in her life and a few photos. I wrote her personality the way I wanted it for my story, with no idea of what she was really like. Spirit of the Scottish Kelpie asked me a wonderful question: who might I cast as Helen if this story were a movie? For readers who need a visual, picture Frances O'Connor with curly hair and blue contact lenses, living in some AU where she and Victor Garber (my Tommie, of course!) are only 8-10 years apart in age. :-D

(line)

_A memory: July, 1911_

A peaceful Sunday morning at Dunallan, Thomas's home in Belfast. He and Helen were having their morning tea in the breakfast room. He browsed each section of the paper, and then passed them along to her in turn. From time to time one of them would stop to look out at the garden for a moment, or to make some quick request of the maid.

"Have they given any more thought to the name for 402?" Helen asked.

In any other place and time, it would have seemed a very arbitrary way to start a conversation. But the last two months had seen the launch of _Titanic_ and the maiden voyage of _Olympic._ Within the next few months, the third and last of the sister ships, simply called "number 402" in the early plans, would be laid down. Right now, the only place on earth where the Olympic liners' presence loomed greater than at Dunallan was in the very planning offices of Harland & Wolff. Most women would be so sick of the ships by now that they would forbid their husbands to speak of them in the home. Helen, of course, was not like most women.

She was very bright- not just dinner-party "witty," but well-read and with a solid sense of reason about her. She and Thomas were both likeable, but quiet; they both had fine features, but were not exceedingly attractive. As you would expect for two modest people in a world of wealth and glamor, they took a while to find each other. (He was thirty-five and she was twenty-seven when they married.) But they made up for lost time with a fierce loyalty to one another.

Although Helen had little interest in the sea, and no one in her family had business interests in shipbuilding, she saw the life and energy that it gave her husband. So she found her own ways to support it. She would marvel over the ornamentation of the Grand Staircases, or the choice of fabrics for the curtains in the staterooms. Or, like today, she would turn her superstitious fascination with names towards the naming of the ships.

"Well, Ismay still favors RMS _Gigantic,_" Thomas scowled. "Uncle Will finds it tactless, and I agree. I think J. P. Morgan does too; he just won't admit it yet."

Helen clucked at him, playfully. "For shame, Tommie Andrews! Always pickin on poor old J. Bruce Ismay!"

"He deserves it! Arrogant as he is." He snapped his newspaper. "Scaling back my watertight bulkheads to save a little weight and money, scratching lifeboats off the plans left and right…" He let his paper drift to the floor and rubbed his temples for a moment. Smiling at his dear Helen, he teased her, "I suppose yer just defendin him cause ye like the name _Gigantic_…"

"Good heavens, no!" she laughed. "It's awful! Truly, I prefer your uncle's idea, _Britannic._ I think it's good to give ships geographical names. It serves almost as a metaphorical anchor…" Helen toyed with a lock of her curly, dark brown hair. She glanced outside at the rose garden, and the rolling green lawn beyond. "To keep a vessel out at sea somehow connected to the earth."

_Olympic_ for Mount Olympus, _Britannic _for Great Britain… and then _Titanic _for the Titans, Greek gods and goddesses? It didn't quite fit. "We should've found an earthier name for 401," Thomas sighed. "Something connecting her to Ireland, perhaps."

"Well it's too late, now that she's launched…"

"I know. I'm sorry. But I'll make it up to ye, Nellie." His eyes were dark with concern as he looked out at the humid summer morning. "I'll convince Ismay to put the lifeboats back on her, or extend the bulkheads back up, I promise…"

Helen got up, went around behind his armchair and leaned down to kiss the top of his head, breaking his melancholy trance. He reached up, wrapping his broad, firm hands around her slender white arms. "Now don't let me be worryin ye, Tommie Andrews. Lord knows ye know exactly what yer doin."

(line)

Thomas got up and dressed in only a plain white shirt, black trousers and suspenders, and an older pair of shoes. After what he had seen yesterday afternoon, his first priority today was inspecting the boiler rooms. Dressing for first class, or even having breakfast, would come later.

He was greeted by a foreman named O'Brien, who seemed tickled pink at the idea of a rich man unafraid to get his hands dirty with a firm, sooty handshake. "Good mornin, Mr. Andrews!"

"Good morning, Mr. O'Brien! How is she?"

"Just grand, sir, don't ye worry!" He and Thomas descended a ladder from the engine room down into the foremost boiler room: number six. In the aft starboard corner of the room, a fire let off a steady stream of thick, black smoke.

A fire _outside_ the furnaces, blazing in one of the coal bunkers.

"As ye said, water would only steam up the place. And we stopped with the chemical extinguishers because they weren't doin any good. We reckoned we should save 'em for any other fires aboard that we _can _put out easy." Seeing the deep line that appeared in Thomas's brow as he studied the fire, O'Brien quickly added, "'It's well under control, sir. We moved as much coal out of the way as possible; now we just have to watch it closely, let the rest burn itself out."

"Judging by the size of it, that could take a day or two…" Thomas noticed black streaks appearing on the iron walls above the fire- some on the hull, and some on a nearby watertight bulkhead.

"Aye, sir. But we've done all we can. We'll be sure to stop it from spreadin at all costs."

"Of course. And rotate the shoveling men who work nearby; have the foremen keep an eye out for anyone suffering smoke inhalation."

"Aye, sir."

"Fetch me if there's any trouble- at any hour, day or night. My stateroom is A-36. If I'm not there, have someone ask for me on the bridge."

"Aye, sir."

(line)

"Smooth sailing, eh, Mr. Andrews!"

Thomas leaned forward and lit his cigar from the captain's lighter. They were in the first class smoking room. The crowds that gathered for the posting of the daily run had dissipated, and the two men were taking a rain check on Smith's Wednesday offer to share some cigars. They sat in expansive armchairs before the unlit fireplace, which was topped by a massive oil painting of Plymouth Harbor.

The white marble fireplace and the muted blue painting were practically the only furnishings in here that were neither green nor brown. Thomas had designed this room to reassure the most refined men in the world of their rustic masculinity. It seemed to be working. The opaque windows and the dark paneling gave the light a late-afternoon feel, even at 12:15 in the afternoon. With four old codgers playing a slow and serious game of poker at a corner table, the ambience resembled a saloon in the American West.

"Pity about that coal fire in boiler room six," the captain mused. Before Thomas could assure him that he'd checked on it this morning, Smith continued: "In this spectacular weather, I'd love a chance to light all the boilers, see what she's capable of."

Thomas inquired, "Are we making bad time?"

"Oh, not at all! We're running like clockwork. But you know that full speed ahead is standard practice in such fine circumstances as these. Besides," Smith winked. "wouldn't it be something to surprise them all and arrive in New York _early_? Imagine the press!"

Perhaps… but speed was never intended to be one of _Titanic_'s bragging points. She could hold her own against the other great ships of the day, surely, but she wasn't out to break any world records.

She was designed for comfort and stability- as indeed the entire Olympic line was. Once _Britannic _was up and running, they would be offering regular, week-long Atlantic crossings on the three liners. Westward departures and arrivals on Wednesdays, eastward on Saturdays, Southampton to New York, ceaseless and predictable. They would run, as Smith said, "like clockwork."

"Well, what do you say, Andrews?" Smith asked with a gently teasing tone. It was then Thomas realized he had drawn on his cigar and blown rings twice without saying anything.

"It would be something, Captain, I'll give you that. But with the minor damage sure to be left by the fire, and with the lookout having lost their binoculars, we might want to wait til some other voyage before giving the press even more to print_._" He drummed the fingers of his free hand against his notebook in his lap. "Nothing wrong with arriving right on time, now is there?"

"I suppose not…" Smith tapped his cigar against an ashtray, deftly avoiding eye contact with Thomas.

"Not that I'm against stretching her legs, you understand; I'd just have a greater peace of mind if we did it, say, in warmer weather and with a few more lifeboats aboard. As it is now, we could scarcely get everyone off in two trips- if, heaven forbid, we needed to."

Smith glanced up. His brow was a bit furrowed, but his gaze was calm. Thomas could tell he'd won him over, even if the captain himself had yet to come round to the idea.

Thomas didn't push the issue. Instead they talked of sports, of Smith's prized dogs, of mutual business acquaintances, and then of family. The two men had something in common; they each had only one child, a daughter. Smith mentioned his daughter's recent birthday.

"How old is she now?" Thomas asked lightly.

"Fourteen." Smith chuckled to himself. "Very smart, very pretty, and _very _spoiled by her mother."

Thomas offered as a consolation: "Fourteen can be a difficult age- for children of either sex." Then, mostly to amuse the captain: "I gave my parents a lot of grief at fourteen, though it was more for my lack of interest in anything other than ships, cricket, and pretty girls." He drew on his cigar again.

Smith let out one of his broad, booming laughs that so nicely bolstered his image as a hardy sea captain. "I can imagine!" Then, suddenly more pensive, "I believe fourteen is the age at which Miss DeWitt Bukater lost her father."

Thomas exhaled slowly. The very mention of young Rose, even in a tragic light, seemed to make the air stand still and glimmer for the briefest moment.

The captain continued, "I shudder to think, if something were to happen to me and I couldn't guide my Helen through the years ahead. After last night, I wonder if a fatherly presence in Miss DeWitt Bukater's life would have caused her to be… a little less reckless."

Thomas frowned. "Captain? May I ask what happened last-"

His question was interrupted by the luncheon bugle. The captain gave Thomas a sort of closed smile, the one that didn't deepen the crows' feet like his natural one did. Thomas recognized it as the smile that Smith gave to passengers, when they fretted over matters that a seaman knew were trivial.

"Well, then, it's off to luncheon. Shall we?"

Thomas stood, and got his bearings in the conversation once again. "Yes, sir; thank you for the pleasure of your company."

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Andrews."

At luncheon, Thomas intentionally found a table some distance away from the DeWitt Bukaters. He couldn't let his bafflement and concern show in front of the entire saloon, when clearly the incident (whatever it may be) was being kept somewhat hush.

Afterwards, Molly Brown approached him and asked, "Care to escort a lady round the promenade?" He quickly accepted. Molly was astute; she would know what had happened. And he was sure she would tell him because… well, because she was _Molly._

As they strolled onto the outside deck, Thomas began to ask her about Rose. But she spoke first and surprised him:

"So Tom, ya know why they call me Molly?"


	4. Fast Friends

**IV. Fast Friends**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Just for fun:** Whoever catches and comments on the nod to a Billy Joel lyric first, I think _we _might be fast friends. It's not an obvious one, so a little hint- it's on the album Glass Houses. ;-)

(line)

_Friday, 12 April, 1912_

My dearest Nellie,

This has been a busy, and perhaps bewildering, day. I am afraid I had forgotten to write to you, and now I must prepare for dinner. I know when you read this you will laugh and say I could have easily written the note tomorrow and dated it today, and you never would have known. However, you know that I have never been able to tell even the smallest of lies to you.

The weather continues to be marvellous. There have been only minor problems with the ship. I wish I could say the same of her first-class passengers.

I continue to miss you and our little Elba, very much. Give her a kiss from me.

Yours,

Tommie

(line)

"Countin my older half-sisters, I was the fourth of six kids born to a coupla dirt-poor Irish immigrants who set out to Missouri for that whole 'land of opportunity' bit. I was christened Margaret but called Maggie from the day I was born. When J.J. saved the mines back in Leadville, our 'new acquaintances' in Denver high society had trouble callin me Maggie. Sounded to them like somethin a poor Irish farmer would name his cow."

As they climbed up to the boat deck, Thomas gave a snort of laughter. He didn't think anything Molly had to say about her name could distract from his concern about young Rose. However, this did come pretty close!

"So my high society 'friends' call me Molly, and my _real _friends and family still call me Maggie. Ya know why I'm tellin ya this, Tom?"

They turned a corner and found themselves in the shade, quite welcome after even just five minutes walking in the glaring sun. Despite the splendid weather, the deck chairs were abandoned. This deck was primarily for first-class passengers, and if there was anything that the wealthy unanimously enjoyed almost as much as money itself, it was a post-luncheon nap.

"I'd imagine," Thomas said with a coy half-smile and humorous, feigned formality, "that this is a sort of cautionary tale concernin a certain Miss Elizabeth Law Barbour Andrews?"

"You bet it is!" Molly's ruby-red lips parted in a wide grin. "I'm cautionin ya to _keep _callin her Elba. If she's unlucky enough to have to put up with snooty so-called 'friends' someday-"

"As I'm sure she will be-"

"Then they can call her Lizzie or Elizabeth or Your Royal Highness for all I care, but she's gotta get to the end of each day and in her heart of hearts, know that she's Elba. That's how she'll remember who she is and where she comes from." Molly stopped by the railing and placed one hand firmly upon it. It was a sort of stately, portrait pose, to emphasize her final point.

"Ye know, _I_ was the one who thought of the nickname." The little boast popped out before Thomas could stop and consider it. "Nellie liked 'Lizzie,' but I thought 'Elba' was more unique, and conveys the full meanin of her name. Nellie accused me of- oh, how did she say it…" he paused, fiddling with his pocket watch and staring out to sea as if the Atlantic would jog his memory. "Ah, yes." He smiled at Molly: "'a seafarin tendency to pare any message down to its shortest possible form,' she said "

Molly's blue eyes sparkled in delight. Her rather blunt face was suddenly almost pretty. "Well with a story like _that _behind it, you _really _gotta keep up the nickname. It's about her bein her daddy's little girl."

_Daddy's little girl… A fatherly presence in her life… _"Molly." Thomas swallowed nervously. "I've heard something happened last night to Miss DeWitt Bukater…"

Molly's expression turned somber. She pulled Thomas over to a nearby bench and sat down. (She had a strong grip!) There was a moment of dark Irish silence. Molly shifted in her garish, ruffled finery before speaking, and Thomas stared openly, waiting.

"She damn near fell off the back of the boat."

He gasped involuntarily. "Good heavens! What happened?"

"Well…" She looked down, tracing a circle on the deck's pine with one glittering shoe. "She says she was leanin over to get a look at the propellers. Some brave young fella from steerage was in the right place at the right time and pulled her back up. I think Cal's invited him to dinner tonight."

It was clear to Thomas that Molly was being uncharacteristically reticent with her real opinion. In a low voice, he asked, "Leanin over to look at the propellers?"

She looked up at him. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

"I know. Ain't that a heapin load a horseshit. She's not dumb. She's just…"

Thomas reached out and clasped both his strong hands around one of her plump, gloved ones. It was an instinctive gesture in the presence of a lady who was crying.

"She's _trapped!_ I-" she pulled her hand away to dig through her silk purse. She pulled out a handkerchief, blew her nose like a trumpet. "I've been to a lotta funerals, Tom. I've seen a lot of fresh widows, young ones whose men died in the mines. They all act differently. But I remember this one woman, about thirty, who was just unnatural_…_"

Thomas was nonplussed. Molly shook her head, closing her eyes at the awful memory.

"She didn't babble, but wasn't silent either; just spoke when spoken to and acted like nothin was wrong. She wasn't sad, wasn't angry, wasn't even confused. She was just blank, and cold, like she wasn't even there… I've never seen anything like it, before or since… Until I met Rose…"

Dreading what might be coming next, Thomas leaned forward, putting a hand gently on Molly's shoulder. She was trembling.

"That widow… they found her in her cabin two days later." Her voice pitched upward. "With a rope around her neck."

"Oh, Molly."

It was something they could never do in public. In the empty boat deck, witnessed only by the sea wind and sky, Thomas fully embraced Molly. She sobbed noisily onto his shoulder. As she cried herself out, he planned out his apology for breaching the subject of Rose DeWitt Bukater, and his polite offer to escort her to her stateroom to rest.

But she suddenly took him by the arm and resumed their circle around the promenade. She began talking about women's education and the women's vote and women's choices in life. About Caledon Hockley being a controlling misogynist, with which Thomas would agree. And about how Rose would be better off running away to work in a department store, or be an actress in the moving pictures. He wasn't so sure about that.

A few passengers trickled up, headed to the gymnasium, or curious for a higher view than A deck. Molly gently shrugged her arm away from Thomas's. "Well, as ye said, no one can control Rose's future except young Rose herself… So we'll just have to do anything we can to make the present moment lighter for her." He smiled. "Are ye friends with the DeWitt Bukaters?"

"About as much as any of the other ladies here," Molly grumbled. But she seemed to catch Thomas's drift. "I'll try to cheer her up. She's still got a sense of humor in there, so I've at least got somethin to work with."

"I trust ye remember her astute comments about Dr. Freud yesterday?" he winked.

"That was somethin else," Molly chuckled. "So what're you gonna do to cheer her up?"

They happened to be turning back into the sunlight just then. That must be why his face went hot... "Well, I…"

She gave him an odd side-glance. "You said _we'll _have to lighten her up, Tom, not just me…"

He struck upon an idea. "I've given interested passengers a ship's tour on other vessels. Do ye think she'd be keen on that? I have some concerns about the ship that'll take some time tomorrow, but should be resolved by Sunday. We could get a group together then."

"Well that'd be swell!" Molly beamed up at him. (Thomas was nearly a foot taller than her.) "Ya know, she actually _is _interested in the ship." Neither of them added, _Just not the propellers. _"So what're ya takin care of tomorrow?"

"Oh, nothing really. We have a small fire in a coal bunker; happens on large steamers quite often." Against his better judgment, Thomas added, "I'm just a bit concerned because it's near one of her watertight bulkheads."

Molly cocked her head thoughtfully. "Do those things really make _Titanic _'unsinkable'?"

He exhaled slowly, carefully considering his reply. Molly looked puzzled. Finally, quiet enough to not attract the other passengers' attention, he told her, "That's my _least _favorite of the press's songs of praise for _Titanic. _It's pure rubbish. You know as well as I do that iron doesn't float in water, Molly. Put enough holes in a vessel made of iron, and she _will _sink."

Another silence. This time, Thomas recovered first. He began telling Molly about his childhood, about finding a wrecked rowboat on the lough shore and towing it home with his brothers, to patch her up and paddle her out. She reciprocated with stories of how she set out from Missouri to Colorado, full of wild dreams of "marrying up" so her poor old father could retire in peace, but then falling in love and marrying a man just as poor as her own family…

And so they walked around and around the deck. They talked about Molly's charity work, and about Thomas's shipbuilding career (which, from apprenticeship all the way up to head of design, had taken place entirely at Harland & Wolff.) They talked about their children. They even talked about their spouses, and why they were both traveling without them.

"Nellie says Elba's too young, and she wouldn't want to distract me from my work," Thomas shrugged. "I think she just doesn't like the open sea much. But what about your J.J., Molly?" Thomas's smile was warm and familial. "I feel like I know him now, from all your stories."

"You two would probably get along great. Both always tinkerin with stuff, tryin to make things run better. But J.J. and I…" Molly sighed and folded her gloved hands primly before her. "I still respect the man a great deal, but we haven't been livin together since aught-nine." She blushed beneath her hat. "I'd appreciate it if ya didn't spread that around…"

"Of course." Situations like Molly's were not uncommon in their society, but they were generally handled with the utmost discretion. Thomas looked at the golden ribbon of sunlight angling west across the tranquil sea. He flipped open his pocket watch. 4:00. "Well, I need to check on a few things before dinner. Thank ye for a lovely time, Molly."

"You too, Tom. I gotta go see if I can catch up on my gossip with the other ladies. Hey," she remarked as he turned to go. "Seems like we've become fast friends."

"Seems we have." He refrained from mentioning how nice it was to _have _a real friend in this floating miniature city.

"So, could ya call me Maggie from now on?"

He playfully tipped his hat to her. "Only if ye call me Tommie."

She planted her hands on her hips, as if to say, _You're really somethin else,_ but he could tell by her smile that she understood the true meaning of the request. "You got yourself a deal, Tommie."

Thomas checked in with the crew at the bridge, then on some minor problems with the swimming baths. A quick talk with some of the steerage galley staff, a consultation with the ship's carpenter, and he headed back to his stateroom to prepare for dinner.

As he went to draw the curtains before undressing, he thought he saw the most curious sight out his window, on the promenade. …Was that young Rose letting some ruffian in suspenders teach her how to spit over the railing?

No, it couldn't be. The deck was crowded; surely he was seeing things.


	5. Thomas's Baby

**V. Thomas's Baby**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film:** Dialogue between "Mr. Andrews, what are you doing?" and "Thank you, Rose" is from James Cameron's _Titanic, _as it appears on the Internet Movie Script Database, although it was somewhat different in the final film_. _The entire dinner party is based on the same event in Cameron's film, although Thomas's private opinions regarding the scene, and Maggie's comment to him before dinner, are my own. Rose and Jack's fun (and the inclusion of John Ryan's Polka) is from the film too of course.

(line)

_A memory: November, 1910_

"DEAR GOD, NO!"

Thomas was awake and running down the corridor thirty seconds before he could think. And then his mind was racing too: _It's raining, it'll be harder to drive to the doctor's…_ Helen was sitting up in bed, sweating and panting, staring into nowhere.

"Helen! Is something wrong? Is the baby coming?" he asked urgently as he flicked on the electric light.

She turned towards him. Her eyes were shining with tears and darting with confusion. "No… No, I'm fine, Tommie. I'm sorry I woke ye."

Just then, the maid appeared in the doorway. "Is he comin, Mrs. Andrews?"

"Not yet, Katie. I just had a nightmare. Could you fetch me a glass of water, dear?"

"Yes'm." She ducked out, leaving Thomas and Helen alone for a few moments.

Thomas crawled into Helen's bed, pulling the down covers over his legs, tracing her bare calf with his big toe. He rested his chin on her shoulder, tickling her with his stubble. He placed a hand on the broad curve of her belly. "Are ye _sure_ yer alright?" he whispered in her ear. She nodded, and patted his hand. The baby seemed to sense both Mum and Dad's touch then, and kicked vigorously. Thomas sighed with equal parts relief and exasperation. "Whatever was in that book, Nellie… it's not real."

"I _know_ that."

"Course ye do. I don't mean to admonish ye. It just worries me to see ye like this four nights in a row, and over some silly novel ye picked up out of sheer boredom." He pecked her on the cheek, and whispered, "What was in that thing, anyway?" All he knew was what she had been moaning in her sleep the last few nights when he or Katie found her: _Iceberg, look out! …They're gonna die, ye don't have enough lifeboats! They're gonna die!_

Katie came in and wordlessly placed a glass of ice water on the nightstand. "Thank you, Katie. One more thing before you go back to bed," Helen asked, "could you get the book on the coffee table in the library? The one with the boat on the cover."

"Yes'm."

They listened to the rain and felt for the baby to move again, sharing sweet murmurs and quiet kisses. Katie returned and handed Helen the book, who in turn gave it to Thomas. He took the book in one hand. He wrapped his other hand around both of hers, to stop them from trembling.

"_Futility: Wreck of the Titan, _by Morgan Robertson." Thomas flipped it open to an arbitrary page and started reading. "Hm. Now, who's this Rowland fellow?"

"The main character. He's an alcoholic deckhand." The fact that Helen said it with a completely straight face was a testament to how much this book had frightened her.

"Well, there's yer _first _problem," Thomas muttered playfully. "I can assure ye White Star would never hire _him_." He skimmed a few pages. "Is he… living on an iceberg?"

"He is; he jumped onto it as the ship sank, along with his lover's daughter."

"Jumped onto an iceberg. And didn't die from the impact or slip down into the sea. Really." He slowly moved his gaze up from the book to Helen's tear-streaked face. His brown eyes were wide and innocent with feigned confusion. "Has this writer ever actually _been _to the North Atlantic?"

Thank heaven, Helen's dark look of worry broke, and she started giggling. Now Thomas knew she would be alright. Just to be sure, he spent the next half hour or so thoroughly mocking points of the book with her, especially in the second half. It was really pretty easy to do.

"Of course he's trapped there with his lover's daughter- but not the lover, herself."

"Of course!" Helen replied cheerfully. "That way his lover will _have _to be grateful to him for savin the girl's life, but he'll still be able to fight off that polar bear because his lover's not there to… _distract _him."

Thomas cocked an eyebrow. Throwing his voice deep in mock seduction, he growled, "Doin naughty things on the ice, now are we?"

Helen shrieked with laughter. "Such a dirty mind ye've got, Tommie Andrews!"

"It's not me, Nellie! It's this bloody book!" And with that, he tossed it across the room. Well, perhaps a little more than 'tossed' it. The book hit the wall above the fireplace with force enough to crack the spine, and slumped to the ground splayed open, looking like a bird shot down in the air. "There now. Better?" he asked tenderly.

She still bubbled over with quiet giggles. "Much better." She buried her face in the shoulder of his flannel pajamas. "But Tommie?"

He kissed her unruly hair, then leaned over and kissed where their baby grew. "Yes, m'love?"

"Could ye change the name of 401?"

He shuddered; that was the one part of the book that had genuinely spooked him. "It isn't really my decision… but I'll see what I can do."

The doomed ship in the book was named the _Titan, _and hull number 401- to become the second Olympic-class liner- had recently been given the name _Titanic._

(line)

The steerage lad who had saved Rose's life was coming to dinner tonight. Surely Rose's mother and fiance were going to interrogate him. A shame, really, since he seemed like a nice enough young man. As they watched the extravagant entrances from a corner of the A-deck level of the Grand Staircase, Maggie nudged Thomas and whispered, "That's my son's suit Jack's wearin. Ain't he spiffy?"

Indeed, Thomas would have thought Jack was from first class, if he didn't know better. Jack's light brown hair was perfectly slicked back, he cut a fine figure in that tuxedo, and he even mimicked the other first-class men by putting one hand behind his back when he stood. Well, the other men besides Thomas, anyway. He usually had his notebook and pen in one hand and his pocket watch in the other.

Too bad the charade didn't last long. Before the stewards even finished the drink orders, Ruth DeWitt Bukater asked Jack point-blank about the steerage accommodations.

Maggie glared at Ruth, but Jack didn't skip a beat. "The best I've seen, ma'am," he smiled. "Hardly any rats."

He was probably joking, but Thomas felt a quick stroke of pride that _Titanic_ was considered clean and comfortable even by the steerage passengers. He was surprised to notice the lad was American. Was he immigrating to his own country? But as the wealthy passengers pelted him with curious questions, it became clear he was a starving-artist type who, in maybe twenty years of life, had managed to wander from Wisconsin to California to Paris, and now onto _Titanic_.

The ship pulled at Thomas's attention far more than the conversation. He thought this might happen, and had chosen to sit between Maggie and young Rose, two people he figured would leave him alone if he took out his notebook. The coal fire still troubled him, but this wasn't a good place to ponder that. So he turned his attention to cosmetic issues he had noticed throughout the day, almost automatically, but hadn't had much time to write down until now.

"Mr. Andrews, what are you doing? I see you everywhere writing in this little book." In a flash of slender white fingers, Rose had grabbed his notebook. "_Increase number of screws in hat hooks from two to three._ You build the biggest ship in the world and this preoccupies you?"

So much for Rose leaving him alone. He was at once sheepish, and incredibly relieved that he hadn't jotted anything about the fire.

Ismay must have automatically taken note at the words "the biggest ship in the world," because he interrupted his own conversation with several other gentlemen in order to boast, "He knows every rivet in her, don't you, Thomas?"

"Indeed," Thomas murmured, eager to shift the attention away from himself and return to his notes.

Ismay continued, "His blood and soul are in this ship. She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews."

Rose gave Thomas a gentle smile. "Your ship is a wonder, Mr. Andrews. Truly."

He was flabbergasted. It was like being complimented by an angel. And Rose called _Titanic_ 'your ship.' "Thank you, Rose." He let his warm, smiling gaze linger on her a little too long. She was so flighty, so fragile, and so much younger than him; and still he had fallen under her spell.

After dinner in the smoking room, Thomas had one cigar to be polite and to calm his nerves. Before the gentlemen moved on to the brandies, cards, and braggadocio, he rose from his chair. He had several tasks planned for that evening, the last being one more check of the boiler room fire before retiring for the night.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen…"

Stodgy old Colonel Gracie chortled. "Off to tend to your ship, I see, Mr. Andrews?"

He bowed slightly. _Touche._ "Is it that obvious?"

The others were cordial, even approving, of the master designer who was too dedicated to his ship to dawdle in the smoking room. But Ismay looked at Thomas like he was a child. A defiant one, who must be brought back in line.

(line)

"Like O'Brien told you this morning, sir, everything is under control." Thomas and the night supervisor stood on the boiler room floor, as close as they could get to the fire without their eyes tearing up and their faces burning. Thomas wanted to see with his own eyes that the fire was smaller than this morning, and that there was still nothing flammable nearby. He wanted to _see _that everything would be alright. He just couldn't shake this sense of foreboding. He didn't like how the black streaks up the hull and the bulkhead seemed to have grown.

"You've been told to fetch me at any time, should something happen?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." In his crisp English accent, the supervisor added, "Don't worry, Mr. Andrews. She's cooling down already. Get a good night's rest and check on her in the morning."

They shook hands. "Thank you, Mr. Williams."

As Thomas climbed up to the passenger decks, he shivered and slid back into his waistcoat. He had stood so close to the fire that his white linen dress shirt soaked through with sweat in under ten minutes. There was something strangely familiar, he realized, about Williams' words, but he couldn't put his finger on what. Nor could he explain why he felt they should have been spoken in an Irish accent.

He was on the crewmen's stairs from D deck up to C when he heard strains of music wafting down the corridor. Was that "John Ryan's Polka" coming from the steerage commons? He doubled back down the stairs. It couldn't hurt to take a quick look at something cheerful for once…

As if to perish the thought of cheer, Caledon Hockley's undertaker of a valet made a sudden apparition in the narrow corridor. When he spotted Thomas, his expression didn't change in the slightest. He simply intoned, "Nice to be down among your own kind, laddie?" and walked past.

It was the longest utterance Lovejoy had ever made to Thomas, though they'd seen each other in passing every day since Southampton. He had a tendency to flinch at Thomas's Northern Irish accent, mild and genteel as it was. Racist bastard.

Thomas turned the corner and peered down the narrow stairs into the commons. A fiddle band with a strange, makeshift assortment of backup instruments was striking up another jig. Through a dense smoky haze, he saw some freckled Irishmen having a good-natured arm-wrestling match at one table, some muscled Scandinavians playing cards at the next. Pretty girls from seemingly every corner of Europe and the near East, in plaid shawls and patched skirts, clustered together in corners and winked at nearby boys. A short, Mediterranean man was engaged in emphatic, mimed conversation with a tall blonde. Suddenly, he stopped, laughed, and pointed up at the raised dance floor in the middle of the room.

Thomas followed the young man's hand. What he saw almost made him tumble down the staircase in shock.

Rose DeWitt Bukater, with her shimmering satin dress hiked up and her fiery red tresses flying every which way, was spinning around the dance floor. She had hands clasped with her starving artist hero, who appeared to have unslicked his hair and imbibed a few whiskies since Thomas last saw him. They were laughing and hollering with reckless abandon.

Thomas thought of all the people who had been brought together- new friends, new lovers- and were now dancing away the free time before starting an exciting new life in America. All because of his ship! This, _this _here, was his pride and joy. Now he knew what that lad on Thursday morning must have felt like when he stood on the bow, pumping his fists, proclaiming himself king of the world!

In that moment, two puzzle pieces fell into place.

The first was why Williams' urging him to rest sounded so familiar. He saw the nursemaid laying cool cloths on Elba's brow, when she was only a few months old. It was her first fever. As Helen watched, wringing her hands, the doctor reassured her: "Now don't you worry, Mrs. Andrews, she's cooling off already. Get a good night's rest and check on her in the morning."

The second was that Jack was the lad from Thursday morning on the bow.

(line)

**A/N: **For those of you who don't know, I just want to emphasize that the story _Futility, _by Morgan Robertson, is real. It was published in 1898. No idea if Helen Reilly Barbour Andrews actually read it, but I suspect not. If I were her and I read it, I wouldn't have let Tommie get on the ship!


	6. Possessive

**VI. Possessive**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. Also, no disrespect is intended to the memory of the real J. Bruce Ismay. I write him unapologetically as the "villain" of my story, but the real J. Bruce Ismay (like all of us) had both his good and bad qualities; also, he is only _rumored _to have encouraged Captain Smith to speed up. In the end, he was a broken man after _Titanic_'s sinking and deserves our sympathy. (Now that I've poured water on everyone's campfires, enjoy the chapter! lol)

**One other thing:** I know Rose's alteration of Jack's toast wasn't this way in the movie, but I _thought _it was the first 20 times I watched the darn thing. Maybe I'm deaf, or crazy, but I thought my misinterpretation was more poetic than "To making it count," so I've kept it- at least for now.

(line)

_Saturday, 13 April, 1912_

My dearest Nellie,

Today, I can breathe easily again for the first time since Thursday. A fire broke out in a coal bunker just after Queenstown, and early this morning it finally burned itself out. While it was still burning, it appeared there may have been damage to both the hull and one of the bulkheads. This morning I was able to inspect the damage more closely and, thank God, the hull is still solid as a rock.

The weather is relentlessly beautiful. I spent awhile down in steerage today, taking notes and even conversing with some of the passengers, or at least some who speak English. They are such honest, cheerful people. I received a high compliment from a young man who has sailed several times before. He told me that these are the best steerage accommodations he has ever seen. In addition, I can now say from first-hand experience that the food is quite good for steerage fare. Forgive me, Helen, but even as I write, I am picturing the look on your face when you read this!

Still missing you, sweetheart. Send Elba her daddy's love.

Yours,

Tommie

(line)

Thomas was on B deck of the Grand Staircase, which was isolated at this early hour, on his way down to check on the coal fire. Through the wall, in the private promenade of one of the richest suites, he heard a mighty crash. A man's voice roared in rage; Thomas didn't catch the words.

He could have continued briskly past. Whether it was some domestic altercation, or a true emergency, the occupants of the suite had servants who would see to things. But curiosity got the better of him, and he edged closer, until his ear was nearly against the paneling. He heard a woman, flustered and frail:

"We… we had a little accident. I'm sorry, Trudy. Let me help you…" As the maid reassured her, the young lady broke into delicate sobs. Thomas recognized the voice, and it broke his heart. _Oh, Rose._

He had no proof that Hockley had harmed her. It wouldn't matter even if he did. A woman of any status could be abused by her husband, and it was the way of their world that no other man, except her father or brother, would feel that he should intervene. Poor Rose, she had no father or brother… Still, what on earth could he do? To her, he was just a kindly, perhaps slightly reclusive shipbuilder. He and Maggie planned on him cheering her up with a _ship's tour._ It seemed ridiculous, now that he had a sense of what the poor girl was up against.

From lack of better ideas, Thomas did what he always did when a problem came to his attention; he flipped open his notebook. He jotted, _Talk to Maggie._

(line)

O'Brien greeted him with a wide smile and good news: "The coal fire burned out about five this mornin, Mr. Andrews. No harm done." Although that wasn't entirely true, the damage appeared minimal and was primarily on the bulkhead, not the hull. Thomas took careful notes, then inspected all the boiler rooms and engine rooms. Things were running immaculately.

A weight began to lift from his shoulders, a weight he scarcely realized he had been carrying for a day and a half. By the time he finished in the engine rooms and ascended to the passenger decks, he felt light as a feather, and was whistling John Ryan's Polka. Taking the earliest possible opportunity for a stroll outdoors before continuing up, he cut across the third class promenade towards the poop deck. It was packed. Extended families huddled together, chattering in foreign tongues. Thomas imagined some of them were saying to their wide-eyed children, "Stop staring at that rich man half-skipping across the deck!"

"Hey! Mr. Andrews!"

He turned and scanned the crowds. "Hello, Jack!" The young man was sitting on a bench, alone, sketchbook on his knee.

"Wanna take a load off for a minute?"

_Oh, why not, _Thomas thought, and then his stomach answered that question with a grumble. "Only if you have some food; I'm afraid I skipped breakfast."

To his surprise, Jack reached into a knapsack at his feet and pulled out a dish towel, which he unwrapped to reveal a biscuit of substantial size. "Here. It's from today- I swear."

Thomas took and gingerly inspected it. Satisfied that the morsel probably wouldn't kill him, he bit off a piece. A bit bland, but it was thick, moist, and clearly fresh. "Not bad," he admitted as he sat down.

"Ya know, I wasn't kiddin around yesterday when I said this is the best steerage I've seen." Jack pulled out a cigarette and held it between his teeth. He deftly lit up, already accustomed to shielding the match from the sea wind. He continued, "You never fall outta the bunks at night from the ship swaying, you only have to wait about half a day for a chance to wash your clothes, and the food's way better than the pub leftovers I was livin on before I won the ticket."

"Well thank you, Jack, truly that means a lot to me. Although if you have any suggestions for improvements, any at all…"

Jack replied almost instantly, "Make the toilets outta somethin comfier than iron."

The toilets were porcelain in second class and marble in first, but to use either of these more expensive materials in steerage would have been a financial disaster. Still, to humor Jack, Thomas opened his notebook. He brushed past the note from this morning, _Talk to Maggie, _and itjogged his memory. "Jack, I wanted to ask you about Miss DeWitt Bukater." He found himself lowering his voice, even though it didn't matter much down here. "You do know that she's engaged?"

The young man looked down at his lap, at his own book. "Yes, sir."

"And her fiance… well, he's a bit possessive." Thomas felt an odd, twisting sensation in his stomach, remembering that crash this morning. Remembering her sobs.

"I know, sir," Jack mumbled. He was suddenly so _demure. _It occurred to Thomas that he was lecturing Jack like a father.

"Now I'm not saying ye can't be friends, Jack. I'd just hate to think yer tryin to make her fall in love with ye, is all."

"I'm not, sir."

"Yer not?" Thomas turned to face Jack directly, throwing one arm over the back of the bench. "Look, Jack, I was checkin things in steerage last night and I saw ye both. If yer not tryin to make her fall for ye, then what in God's name are ye doin?"

Jack opened his sketchbook. "Look."

The page held two pictures of a young woman. They were quick sketches, a little rough, but Thomas could tell that they were both of Rose. In the top left hand corner, she stood behind a ship railing, in a lacy dress with a tall, oppressively narrow sash at the waist. Her mouth was one quick line, straight and solemn. Her eyes were mere dots for pupils, below arcs for the upper eyelids, and yet they conveyed a kind of stalwart suffering. The bottom folds of the dress billowed, suggesting wind, but not a strand of her hair was out of place. Her elbows bent at perfect thirty-degree angles. Even her hands on the rail were tidy and symmetrical. She looked unreal, like a paper doll. Or like she was about to be suffocated by her own corset. Thomas recognized her dress as the one that Rose wore on Thursday at the Café Parisian.

In the bottom right hand corner, Jack had drawn her just from the waist up. The neckline of her dress was low, almost scandalously so. Jack had communicated Rose's figure with a few simple, but very brave, curved lines. Her arms were flung about. Her hair was everywhere- tangled in her fingers, flying out behind her, clinging to her neck- but the chaos was not unbecoming. The facial features were more distinctly Rose this time, with her slightly heavy eyebrows; her small, sensuous mouth; those thick eyelashes. She was looking down in this one, so Thomas couldn't see her eyes. Jack hadn't drawn her with an open smile, either. Yet as Thomas noted the light shading on her cheeks and around her collarbone, to indicate a girlish blush, he knew that she was full of happy energy in this one.

Jack let him take it in for a moment, then said, "She's almost two different people. See how in the top one, everything's sharp lines, and the shading is uniform across any given fabric or across most of her face?" he traced his fingers over the sketch. "She's flat. She's almost not even there. But down here, everything's loose and moving, and she's in all three dimensions. She's _living._" Frowning slightly, he looked up at Thomas. "I don't need her to fall in love with me, Mr. Andrews. Just with life itself."

It was such an awful, canned line, like something running across the screen at a bad nickelodeon… if it were about anyone else. Concerning young Rose, however, it made perfect sense. Jack had a gift; he could really _see _Rose. On Thursday, Jack had seen the same numb, ghostly politeness that had so frightened Maggie. Last night, he saw… something very different.

It was enough to make Thomas wonder if Maggie had been right, about Rose being better off running away from her life of comfort and wealth. Even running away with Jack, in particular. Thomas remembered a toast Jack had proposed last night at dinner: _To make each day count._ Rose had altered the phrasing a bit before the glasses were raised, and in hindsight, her words shook Thomas to the core:

_To make me count._

Out of first-class habit, Thomas threw a covert glance at their surroundings before asking Jack, "Is there a dance down here tonight as well?"

Jack nodded. "Every night, sir."

"Did ye invite her back?"

Jack shifted uneasily. "Yeah, I did… Should I have?"

Thomas handed him back the sketchbook. Before getting up, he firmly clapped the young man on the shoulder. "Yes."

(line)

At luncheon, Colonel Gracie absentmindedly pounded his glass against the table at all the exciting points of his father's old war stories, and it was just too much for the poor glass. As a steward swept away the shards, Thomas decided that he would spend his afternoon thoroughly inspecting the galleys and inviting questions and comments from their staff. However, before he got the chance, Mr. Ismay pulled him aside. "May I have a word, Thomas?"

He followed Ismay into the reception room. The Englishman stood and schmoozed with other passengers as they wandered out of the saloon and up the Grand Staircase to their staterooms. Thomas sat sideways on a loveseat by the window, put one foot up on the opposite knee, and loosened his tie a bit. He gave a cursory glance around for any potential improvements, found none that were readily apparent, and looked admiringly at the round-topped, federal-style windows. On a smaller scale, they reminded him of the windows in the main stair landing at Dunallan.

The crowds dwindled away. Ismay pulled up a wicker chair and sat right in front of Thomas, staring him down. "That nuisance fire is out, and the weather is still perfect. Captain Smith should not require _convincing _to go full speed ahead. And yet, this morning, that is exactly what I had to do. While he was muttering excuses about running in the engines," he growled, "_your_ name came up."

Thomas fixed him with an icy stare. _Ye don't scare me, J. Bruce Ismay._ "If we're making good time, Mr. Ismay, then with all due respect, I don't see the problem here."

Ismay threw his hands up in exasperation. "Well of course _you_ don't see the problem, Thomas. You're too busy scribbling notes at the dinner table, and stepping out on cigars with your most important clients in order to brood like a mother hen over what, a measly coal fire?"

A flash of anger made Thomas sit up straight in the loveseat. _Coal fires are as serious as the damage they cause. Don't you dare accuse me of being hysterical, just for looking out for my ship!_

Ismay stood up and began pacing the plush carpet. Thomas watched him intently, running his thumb along the spine of his notebook.

"This may come as a surprise to you, but I _like _working with you, Thomas. You're a brilliant designer, and your dedication is admirable. However, I talk with the first-class passengers. I gauge their reactions to the ship- and to those who made her. Half of them still haven't had the pleasure of your acquaintance, and the other half wonder _why_, if the ship is so perfect, you run about noting improvements all the time."

Ismay walked with his hands in his pockets, grinding his teeth, his jowls turning red in anger. Thomas continued to give him nothing but a cold stare.

"These are the movers and shakers of our world, Thomas! If you plan to take over Harland & Wolff someday for your uncle-" he held up his hand to stop Thomas from speaking. "_Don't_ give me any false modesty. Everyone knows he's had his eye on you for years. But you have to learn to create a _presence _in front of these people!"

He stopped and sighed, his head bowed low. _Such a tragic pose, _Thomas thought sarcastically. Ismay's voice was quieter as he continued:

"Since we've left Southampton, I have done nothing but give you opportunities to do exactly that, and you have only turned them down."

_Oh, so he thinks he's a mentor to me now? Almost laughable, that is._

Ismay straightened, facing Thomas squarely again. "So here are the rules," he said evenly. "Do whatever you want between meals, but you're not to scribble in that notebook at the table. After dinner each night, you will stay in the smoking room and socialize _properly _for at least an hour." Thomas stood up. Ismay had to look up at him now; the Irishman was the taller of the two by a good four inches. "And I'll have no more talk of running at less than full speed, do you understand?"

Thomas smirked at him. "Mr. Ismay, I think you're forgetting who it is you're speaking to. I'm not a ship's steward you can order about at whim." He paused for emphasis. "I'm the ship's designer."

He thought he had him beat. Ismay lowered his gaze and muttered, "Of course, the ship's designer..."

Then suddenly:

"Damn right, you're the SHIP'S DESIGNER!"

Ismay moved as if to take a swing at Thomas. He flinched, only to feel the force of his notebook being knocked out of his hands. He opened his eyes to see it crash against a chair twenty feet away.

Ismay jabbed a finger into Thomas's chest. "And don't you ever forget who you designed her FOR! This is a White Star ship! She's MYship, Thomas! And that means that right now, you work for _me." _Ismay's face was inches from his; he could feel the man's spittle hitting him. "Your job is to help me ensure we beat out Cunard in every way possible- _including speed!_ If we don't, J. P. Morgan will tire of us; White Star Line will fall from glory; your precious Harland & Wolff will fall from glory, and take half of Belfast down too! Is THAT what you want, Thomas?" Trembling, Ismay used his shirtsleeve to wipe sweat from his mustache.

Every step of Ismay's logic was theoretically possible, but a gross exaggeration of likely events. Thomas had to wonder what had happened to this man, to make him think he always had to fight his way to the top- even when he was already there. Ismay's chest was heaving; his eyes were bright and frantic. Thomas's own heart was racing, but he kept calm. He knew he was dealing with a very frightened man, and therefore, a dangerous one. He proceeded with caution:

"No, sir. That's not what I want. And I will do everything I can to ensure that none of that ever happens." Thomas swallowed hard. Ismay stepped back to a respectable distance. "Harland & Wolff is already the biggest, most prestigious shipyard in the world. The Olympicliners are marvels of engineering that could very well outlive us both!" He held his head high. "But you need to understand, Mr. Ismay: that kind of success is built on years upon years of hard work, both mental and physical, from _thousands_ of dedicated men."

He brushed past Ismay to retrieve his notebook, giving a discreet nod to some stewards who had stopped to stare. _It's alright, lads, now back to work._ On his way to the saloon, he turned back on his heel to deliver a final blow:

"It isn't built on whether one ship arrives in the harbor on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning."


	7. An Irish Party with Tommie and Maggie

**VII. An Irish Party with Tommie and Maggie**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**No disrespect intended** to the memory of the real Thomas Andrews or Margaret Brown. This chapter was written for the sake of my plot, and for a little fun and comic relief. There's no way the real historical people acted like this. ;-)

(line)

_We need to talk. Meet me at the clock at 11._

(line)

Thomas slipped Maggie the note as dinner drew to a close. At that point, he fully intended to simply meet and talk. They could go to the reading and writing room or, if that wasn't private enough, perhaps they could slip away unseen to one of their staterooms. They would brainstorm ways to warn Ruth, nudge disapproval at Hockley, or embolden Rose without endangering her. In Thomas's wildest imaginings, they might concoct a way to help Rose disembark with Jack, but he knew that was madness.

His plans changed in the smoking room after dinner. Too many glasses were clinked over _Titanic'_s newly-reached speed of 22 knots. Inevitably, one would always be Smith's or Ismay's. Too many of the gentlemen's usual comments-in-passing about their women grated on Thomas's nerves tonight:

"…The missus is jealous, of course; it's instinctual. Still, nothing a few new dresses and a Monet for the sitting room won't cure…"

"…I was surprised to hear you'd moved so fast, J.J., at your age- but seeing what a pretty thing she is, I can understand…"

"…A beautiful woman is like a beautiful horse; often they require a little taming…"

That last one was Hockley. Without thinking, Thomas was out of his chair and halfway across the smoking room towards him, his hands balled into fists. As he passed Ismay, the Englishman reached up and seized Thomas's wrist with surprising strength, snapping him back to his wits.

The clock on the fireplace mantle read 9:40. He had given Ismay his damned obligatory hour. He paused, took a deep breath. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

As the plan formed in his mind, he distracted himself with a trip down to check on a broken coil in a G-deck refrigerator. He checked his pocket watch repeatedly while he worked. 10:15, 10:35, 10:45…

He waited for Maggie near the bottom of the stairs between A deck and boat deck, just beneath Honour and Glory Crowning Time. Thomas never tired of marveling at this part of the ship. The looming glass dome, nearly thirty feet in diameter, was a popular favorite among passengers, of course. However, it was only one element of the scene in Thomas's eyes. The ornate carving around the clock and its profound Classical metaphors, the intricate bronze cherub lampstand, the elegant curve of the gold-inlaid banisters, even the solid marble floors, were all just as noteworthy. He looked around and thought of the master craftsmen- of glass and iron, of marble and wood- that had spent months or years of work's passion completing this scene. If any one feature served as the Olympic liners' signature, surely this was it.

The clock chimed eleven. Thomas heard the French doors behind him open, and turned to see Maggie coming in from the A-deck promenade. He nodded slightly and smiled at her approach. She came close to him and half-whispered, "I'm worried about Rose."

"I know. I've been worried about her as well, Maggie, but I'd like to show you something to ease yer worry." Smiling, he lowered his voice so only she could hear. "How would ye like to go to a _real _party?"

Maggie's eyes widened. She stepped back, then grabbed Thomas by the jacket cuffs and pulled him outside. As they fled, they both scanned the staircase and reception room for prying eyes. The promenade was deserted by all except the clear night and the wind of _Titanic's _own velocity. A safe distance from the French doors, Maggie planted her hands on her ample hips and demanded, "_What_ in God's name are ya thinkin, Tommie?"

Somehow, he had not considered this possible outcome, in the hour or so since he'd hatched this absurd plan. It was like being doused with ice water. "Erm…"

"Look, we're livin in a snakepit of gossip til Wednesday, and while I may be happily separated and have no real friends around here except you, I still need to keep a good face for my charities! And I thought _you _were happily married!" she scolded.

"Now Maggie, it's not like that!" he protested. "Jack invited her back!" She stared in incomprehension. He explained: "There's a party, every night, in the steerage commons-"

Her hand flew to her mouth in shock. "The note, the rendezvous…"

"Yes! I saw her down there, with my own eyes. She was so _happy, _Maggie!" Thomas confessed, "I just wanted to see that again." He hugged his notebook to his chest and looked down at the deck, feeling like a shy schoolboy. "But to ask ye to accompany me…" he sighed. "That was very inappropriate, and I apologize. Goodnight, Maggie." He began to head back to the first class entrance.

"Tommie, wait!"

He turned back, trying not to let his embarrassment show. To think she thought that he…

She sighed deeply. _We just might regret this. _"How could I ever say no to you?"

(line)

The scene looked and sounded much the same as yesterday- the smoke, the crowds, the Irish jigs. As they descended into the happy chaos, Thomas was struck by the heat of so many people together, and the smells of cheap alcohol and tobacco, body odor, and… was that garlic and onions? He flipped open his notebook. _Make steerage commons on Britannic __bigger__, with more ventilation. _Maggie brushed past him, waving heartily: "Hey, Jack!"

The young man was playing cards with half a dozen others at a low table near the stairs. He looked up at the sound of his name, and his jaw nearly hit the table when he saw them. "What…? How…?"

"I wanted to check on things, and I invited Maggie to accompany me," Thomas explained, "but we're the only two who know, don't ye worry." He shed his suit coat and waistcoat, draping them over a chair, and even removed his bow tie and wing collar. It was all too formal, and too warm, for this atmosphere.

A curly-haired man in a bowler hat sat beside Jack, intent on his hand of cards as Thomas and Maggie approached. But when Thomas spoke, he looked up with a thoughtful squint.

"Has young Rose arrived yet?" Thomas asked. Jack shook his head. "Well, it's early still- at least for yer age," he assured him.

"Sound like ye come from Belfast," the man beside Jack stated, a little accusingly. His own accent was more southern Irish.

"Thereabouts," Thomas conceded.

The younger man pointed his cigarette at him and demanded, "Ye know what else comes from Belfast? _This ship._"

"That she does, lad." Thomas smiled. "From her keel plates to the tops of her smokestacks, _Titanic_ was built by thousands of strong Irish hands." He pounded his fist into his other hand in pride. "At Harland & Wolff-"

"The biggest shipyard in the world," the young man finished for him. He had let down his guard; he smiled and extended his hand for a shake. "I'm Tommy Ryan."

"Pleasure to meet ye, Tommy. I'm Tommie…" _I can't say "Andrews"; he might know who I am and cause a fuss. _"…Lenaghan." He met Jack's gaze. _Don't say anything!_ Jack gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Mr. Lenaghan, Mrs. Brown, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Tommy, my buddy Fabrizio- just call him Fabri- and this here is Petey…"

They assumed he was one of them. A shipyard foreman, perhaps. Second-class, obviously, but still a working man. As for Maggie, despite her more visibly obvious wealth, she won her way in easily. She just picked up a heavy mug and downed half its contents in one gulp. "Jesus, these first-class women can drink!" Tommy Ryan gaped.

"Rose said she'd try and come by eleven…" Jack told Thomas. As he spoke, a girl of about six, with a floppy bow in her waist-long curls, came up and tapped him on the shoulder. "Oh hey, Cora. I'm sorry, but I can't dance until Rose gets here." The little girl gave him a silent, wide-eyed pout.

"Maggie and I can watch for Rose," Thomas offered. "Go on, Jack. No need to keep your best girl waiting." He smiled at Cora. Her eyes brightened and her pout turned the slightest bit upward. She led Jack up to one of the raised dance floors and they locked arms for a lopsided do-si-do.

Maggie took a refill on the pint she'd just finished off, and gave in to the young men's goading her to play Jack's poker hand in his absence. Alright, so Thomas alone would watch for Rose. He didn't mind. The less attention people paid him, the less likely he was to blow his own cover. Plus, he was just as anxious as Jack to see Rose arrive. His mind wandered to the way she looked last night in Jack's arms, so joyful and passionate, so wild…

The happenings of the room did their best to distract him, however. Children darted under tables, giggling, sometimes chased by frantic parents and sometimes not. A blushing Norwegian girl sashayed up to their table and wordlessly ran her hands through Fabrizio's hair. He dropped his cards on the spot and let her drag him off to a corner for some passionate moments. The others at the table laughed, and asked Thomas to pick up Fabrizio's hand, but he politely refused. Tommy Ryan peeked at the cards. "Just as well. He's losin miserably."

Four or five jigs and reels later, and still no Rose in sight, Maggie cackled, "Royal flush! Read em and weep, boys!" They groaned and pushed crumpled bills and sundry valuables towards her. "Nah, keep it, fellas." She leaned back in her chair, self-satisfied. "You'll need it in America- at least to start with. Though for all we know, ya'll could be millionaires in a coupla years." She pounded the table, and half the cards jumped to the floor. "My parents were poorer than any a ya when they came over from Ireland, and look at me now!" She gestured towards her pearls. "My husband struck gold and now I've got _dozens _of these, lots of fine clothes and furnishins, and I get to travel the world! That's what America is, boys." She raised her glass, which was again nearing empty. "The land where dreams come true."

Tommy Ryan raised his glass. "To America!"

"To America!" they all toasted, including Thomas. A sip for the toast was the first alcohol he'd consumed since coming down here. His father always said a man's reputation relied on his sobriety, and while Thomas stopped short of his father's tee-totalling, he knew it was a sensible concept. Tonight, for instance, his clear head would come in handy for getting Maggie back to her stateroom in one piece.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, burly man hit his head on an exposed ceiling pipe as he climbed the stairs to the dance floor. Thomas took out his notebook. Tommy Ryan nodded appreciatively. "Must be nice for Jack, havin a friend who's an artist like him."

Thomas blanched. "What? I'm not- ah, never mind."

"Now don't go sayin yer not any good!" Tommy wagged his finger at him. "Cause Jack says that, and, well…" He picked up Jack's tattered portfolio and flipped to an early page, then slid it across the table. Thomas found himself looking at a _very _lifelike drawing of a woman's hands, the fingers intricate in gentle light and shadow. The hands were actually so beautiful that it took Thomas a moment to notice they were resting against her bare chest (which was also… nicely drawn.) "Good heavens! Did Jack really draw that?"

Maggie, sitting beside him, leaned over for a peek. "Oh! _Wow,_" she snickered. "I can see why Jack's an artist- lotsa gals willing to take their clothes off for him."

"Ye can see her clothed on the next one," Tommy Ryan offered. Thomas turned the page. He and Maggie both gasped.

Maggie's eyebrows raised in shock. "Is she a…?"

"She is." Tommy was shaking with contained laughter, clearly enjoying this.

Thomas turned his head. He wasn't sure he seeing this right. "Does she only have one…?"

"She does. Dunno why," he shrugged. ."Neither does Jack; she was missin a leg when he met her. Just so ye know- he won't mind if ye look at all of em."

While Thomas and Maggie browsed Jack's work, the younger men got up for more drinks, offering to get the two of them refills as well. (Thomas declined; Maggie enthusiastically accepted.) Jack's Paris drawings were stunning, almost on par with works that Thomas had seen in museums. Unlike his quick sketches of Rose, most of these looked like they took hours to draw, with people posing for him. They were just as accurate as photographs, and in many ways more vivid.

_I wonder what it would look like if Jack drew Rose actually posing for him, _Thomas wondered. The thought made his insides do somersaults, but in a pleasant way.

"Mr. An- I mean, Mr. Lenaghan." A tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Jack, slouched slightly and with his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "You seen her?"

"No, Jack, but I haven't been a diligent watchman these last few minutes."

"That's okay." The skinny lad scuffled his worn boots against the wooden floor. "I stopped dancin with Cora ten minutes ago and have been makin the rounds. I haven't seen her either." He slowly began to turn away.

Maggie spun about in her chair to face him. "Hey Jack!" She reached to touch him on the arm and missed. "Sonny! Yer a damn good artist, ya know that?" He shuffled away, ignoring her. "Well forget _him,_" she muttered, pulling herself up from the table. "I feel like _dancin_. Whaddaya say, Tommie?"

_Dear God in heaven!_ "I should check on him. Go on without me, Maggie." To Thomas's relief, she did so. He caught up with Jack right in front of the band. The drums and pipes were too loud to hear much of anything. He tapped Jack on the shoulder and gestured _come back._ The lad obeyed, but with a blank face and hurt eyes. They saw the crowds clap and holler as Maggie, red-faced, got up on the raised dance floor. She did a clumsy jig, her pearl necklaces bouncing wildly against her chest.

"Looks like she's had a few," the younger man commented.

Thomas nodded. "I would say so." They returned to their table to find Tommy Ryan studying Thomas's notebook. "Oy! Now who said ye could look at that?" he demanded.

Tommy snapped the book shut, but he glared at Thomas. "Just where did ye say ye work, again?"

"Harland & Wolff. Jack," Thomas sighed, putting a hand on Jack's shoulder again. _Do I want to tell him what happened this morning? Or would I be pouring fuel on a dangerous fire?_ "Look, it's not her."

"It's me, isn't it?" Jack sulked.

"No!" What an adolescent! "_No, _Jack, it's _them. _Her mother and fiance, they-"

"Hey _Tommie…_" Maggie was back, and the alcohol had made her coquettish. She swished her opulent skirts from side to side. "Ya _sure _ya don't wanna come _dancin?_"

"Not now, Maggie! Jack," Thomas shook his head, frustrated. "They've got her trapped, and if she doesn't break free, well…" He didn't want to consider it.

Tommy Ryan moved his cigarette up and down with his teeth, still glaring at Thomas. "And what exactly is it ye do at Harland & Wolff, _Mr._ _Lenaghan?_"

Thomas ignored him. He placed his hands over Jack's, which seemed to finally get the petulant boy's attention. "Jack, promise me ye won't give up on her."

"Hey! Tommie! You're the only man in here I trust not to grab me 'hard astern' in a couples' dance! Come on!" Maggie grinned, dancing in place behind him and Jack. She watched as a line of people began to form, skipping and weaving their way around the main floor.

After a solemn moment, Jack returned Thomas's gaze and nodded. He was wounded but determined. "I won't give up, Mr. Andrews. I promise."

Tommy Ryan's mouth fell open. His pals stomped out the dropped cigarette before it started a fire. "Mr. Andrews? As in… _Thomas _Andrews?"

"Alright, Maggie, let's dance!" Thomas grabbed her hand, then took the hand of a young girl on the end of the line darting past them. The two first-classers were yanked into the fray. The fast-paced drumbeats fueled their skipping feet. The escapade was punctuated by hazes of tobacco smoke, and bursts of cheers and laughter from the crowds.

Jack and Tommy Ryan joined the line three or four people behind them. Thomas laughed openly when he heard the Irishman over the din:

"I _KNEW _it, I bloody knew it! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Thomas Andrews! THE Thomas Andrews! Jack, you BASTARD!"


	8. Business and Politics

**VIII. Business and Politics**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film: **The interaction between Thomas and Jack is from James Cameron's _Titanic._

(line)

_A memory: Wednesday, 29 July, 1908_

There was a time when Thomas did not yet dislike J. Bruce Ismay.

Despite a long legacy of close business relationships between their families, Thomas and Bruce had scarcely met before plans began on the Olympic liners. However, they did have a nice chat at a gala at Lord William Pirrie's London manor in 1903. At the time, Bruce seemed to Thomas a jovial and intelligent fellow, talkative and well-traveled. They talked at length about football, cricket, and horse racing.

Thomas had tried to keep conversation light on purpose. Members of the Ismay family were still smarting over J.P. Morgan buying White Star Line the previous year, a business move that Lord Pirrie, Thomas's uncle, had supported. However, when the topic did come up, and Thomas admitted his unease, Bruce laughed and assured him there were no hard feelings. "All in the name of progress, Thomas! The old guard will always quibble over 'change,' but as long as you and your uncle continue to make great ships, and we continue to sail them, I'm satisfied with whoever is in charge."

The very next year, the president and acting director of White Star Line retired, and J.P. Morgan pushed heavily for J. Bruce Ismay to take the position. Now it was Bruce himself who was "in charge." So… was he satisfied? Four years into Ismay's presidency, they were meeting to sign the agreement for the Olympic liners, and Uncle Will warned Thomas shortly before the meeting that "Ismay has changed these last few years."

Uncle Will's office was a cavern of mahogany paneling and solid, regal furniture. White Star Line and Harland & Wolff each had about half a dozen representatives present for the unveiling of the plans, so the introductions took some time. Thomas noted that Ismay's face was leaner and far more lined than when he last saw him five years ago; he appeared to have aged _ten _years. But this was sadly the norm for a man in a position such as his. He shouldered the responsibility for keeping White Star Line, (and, by association, Harland & Wolff,) in the good graces of an aggressive American entrepreneur. At least Ismay still _sounded _youthful and energetic, when he boomed, "So! Let's see those plans!"

Thomas couldn't keep the smile from his face as he unrolled the main blueprint on Uncle Will's desk. His hands trembled slightly as he placed paperweights at the corners. _400 Plan – 29 July 1908 (Proposed General Arrangement). _The gargantuan liner depicted had foursmokestacks, hydraulic gates between her watertight compartments, (as opposed to the customary manual ones,) lifts in both first and second class, and many more luxuries and innovations.

She was promptly attacked by the murmurs and marking pens of half a dozen businessmen. Uncle Will had warned Thomas not to be discouraged by this. Then, someone suggested getting rid of the glass dome over the first-class saloon, since a similar dome on Cunard's _Mauretania _and _Lusitania_ sometimes made the saloon too bright and stifling. Thomas loved that dome! He lost track of the conversation as he pondered how they could move it somewhere else, rather than get rid of it entirely…

"Thomas, would you please explain the number of lifeboats on this plan to Mr. Ismay?" Uncle Will prompted.

"Of course, sir." He gathered his thoughts. "My colleague Mr. Carlisle has proposed that we put in enough davits for sixty-four boats," he gestured across the blueprint's boat deck, "capable of carrying over four thousand people in total. Even the largest Olympic liner, at full capacity, will have lifeboat seats for everyone aboard."

Mr. Ismay stared at the blueprint. "Hm. Tell me, Thomas- do you agree with Mr. Carlisle?"

The use of his Christian name by a distant business associate, and in such a formal meeting, only accentuated the fact that Thomas was one of the youngest men in the room. He ignored the indignity, and cheerfully replied, "I do agree with him, Mr. Ismay. Very few larger ocean liners have enough lifeboats for all their passenger and crew these days, and we would like to see the Olympic line at the forefront of safety, as well as luxury, comfort, stability…" Even while Thomas spoke, Ismay began methodically marking X's over the boats.

"Are you suggesting that in this era of watertight hull compartments, advanced wireless communications, and a sea full of friendly ships, a _White Star ship _would everneed to keep all her passengers and crew afloat at once?" Ismay demanded. All eyes were on Thomas, some angry and some curious.

"No, sir… But nothing is for certain in this world…"

Ismay scowled. "I'm quite certain J. P. Morgan wouldn't like his first-class passengers' view from the boat deck cluttered with a fearsome quantity of lifeboats."

"It's a _boat deck, _sir," Thomas pointed out. Uncle Will shot him a warning look. He softened his tone. "What I mean to say is, the lifeboats won't obstruct the passengers' entry to facilities on boat deck, and if they wish to see the view, well, we've given them quite a beautiful, expansive A deck."

"Morgan will want to give them more than just A deck," Ismay muttered at the blueprint. "He'll want to give them the world!"

"Well, now, even first-class passengers can't always get what they want." Thomas shook his head, frustrated. "The law requires lifeboats. If we're going to have boats on deck anyway, and we have more than enough deck space, then why _not_ have boats for everyone? Even if a full evacuation is never needed, extra boats will ease the strain in the event of a panic, or a list that swamps the boats on one side." As he spoke, Thomas heard the men in the room begin to whisper amongst themselves. Talk of such grave mishaps, even in theory, rattled them.

"I'll tell you what," Ismay sighed. He smiled slightly, and continued in a sing-song voice as if making a magnanimous offer to a stubborn child. "I'll present this plan to J.P. Morgan with thirty-two boats- half the number you and your colleague wish for, and about _twice_ the number that the liners' tonnage will require by law. We'll see where things go from there, alright, Thomas?"

"A compromise. A grand idea, Mr. Ismay," Uncle Will spoke up. He gave Thomas a cold stare. For the remainder of the meeting, the young architect spoke only when spoken to.

(line)

The first class saloon was standing room only for the Divine Service, and Thomas had missed the first few minutes due to a slight delay in his daily inspection of the engine rooms. The Grand Staircase was nearly empty, so he took advantage of this opportunity to take some notes. He was standing in the landing midway between C and D deck, his thoughts lost in beams and banisters, when someone waved a hand right above his notebook to grab his attention. "Hello, Mr. Andrews."

Thomas looked up. "Hello, Jack!" He glanced around; a handful of first-classers were dawdling in the reception room, and he remembered that as far as they knew, he had only met Jack once. His greeting had been a bit too cheery for that. Jack was headed for the church service, (that was obvious,) but Thomas could not appear too interested in the outcome. So he turned and- taking notes each step of the way- made his way up to A deck, emerging in the grandest part of the Staircase.

The lights behind the dome that helped to illuminate it by night were an architectural feat, to be sure, but they couldn't quite compare to the ethereal, pearly glow that bathed the staircase on a clear day. Simple sunshine through frosted glass was a wonder to behold on such a grand scale. Thomas stared up at the dome for a moment, filled with serene gratitude and awe. _This _was his true sanctuary.

The hymns died away. Thomas headed back down towards the saloon, meeting the crowds headed up to their staterooms.

"Mr. Andrews! Are you still giving us a tour of the ship?" Young Rose approached him, her wide green eyes alive with hope. She was a vision in navy crushed velvet and cream-colored lace.

"But of course." Thomas checked his pocket watch. 11:15. He smiled and told Rose, "We'll meet in the D-deck reception room at three o'clock."

"Oh." She was crestfallen. "Can't we go any sooner?"

"I wish we could, but the tour's too long to fit in before luncheon, and I find it's best to give them a little rest after eating…"

"Of course." She smiled and blushed. "See you then, sir."

Thomas spotted Maggie's hat bobbing in the sea of people, and weaved his way towards her. He caught up to her as she was walking up the stairs to B deck. "Maggie, are ye still up for the tour later?"

She kept her head down, as if the stairs were endlessly fascinating. "I'm afraid not, I'm a bit under the weather." Fair enough. They were out _quite _late the night before. But what she said next surprised him: "Good day, Mr. Andrews."

_Mr. Andrews?_

Maggie rushed away as Thomas stood still in the middle of the staircase. A couple of dainty English bluebloods passed him by, and he heard the undertow of women's gossip that was always in these crowds, but had never interested him before today.

"…I suppose her working-class inclinations simply got the better of her."

"Did Mr. Lovejoy see who she was with?"

"No one of our station, or so I've been told. Still, it's quite the scandal; after all, what will Mr. Brown think?"

"Oh haven't you heard? They don't mind each other's business much these days. Though I must say, I wouldn't have minded if she _stayed _down there..."

_What have we done? _Thomas sighed to himself. He set off after Maggie. To apologize, to warn her, to console her- he wasn't sure.

Out on the A-deck promenade, Maggie bustled through the crowds at top speed. She pretended not to notice the tall Irishman trailing her and gaining ground. The crowds thinned as Maggie ducked into the reading and writing room. The meaning of her choice of sanctuary was not lost on Thomas; this room was unofficially for women only. But surely the man who _built _the place would be welcome! After checking to see that no one was watching, he followed her in.

Thomas needn't have feared a scandal for entering; Maggie was the only one in the room. The lounge chairs sat untouched in their cheerful yellow upholstery. The atmosphere was still and stifling, greenhouse effect mingling with the smell of unused books. "Doesn't anyone use this room?" he wondered aloud. "If not, perhaps I ought to…"

"Tom, we can't do this," Maggie blurted. Her eyes were red, and her makeup excessive- even by her standards. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

He reached towards her, trying to be reassuring. She backed against the large fore window. "I just want to make sure yer alright-"

"No, Tom! No. We can't be seen to be…" she hesitated, embarrassed, "_together. _A man and a woman about the same age, both travelin without their spouses, befriendin each other, dancin together…"

What was going on? The indomitable, outspoken Margaret Brown, cowed into submission by the 'snakepit' after all! "For heaven's sake, Maggie!" He reached out again, gently taking her by the elbows. "The dancing- we'd both had a bit too much of the old Irish ale, eh?" he joked. "As for the rest… aren't ye the feminist here? 'Gender shouldn't matter that much' and 'we're all just people' and all that?" He sighed. "You and I, we're just two people that hit it off and became pals, is all."

"That may be so," she muttered, squirming out of his reach. "But people talk, and…"

"And I thought you didn't _care _about all that. I thought you were liberated, outspoken-"

"I'm outspoken for my _causes_, Tom!" she exploded. Tears were building in her eyes. "Not for some silly friendship that's only lasted four days and could mark us both for the rest of our lives!"

Thomas was taken aback. _So that's all that this is to her?_

"Look," she scowled. "You can't understand what it's like for me-"

"Oh, and why not?" he retorted, cocking his head.

"Because, you're… you're _perfect!_" She shook her head, exasperated. "You're brilliant and accomplished, but more than that, you're old money, you're Protestant,your marriage is new and happy, you're _male_." That last one almost came out an insult. "They don't scrutinize your every move, cause you're everything they want!"

_Everything they want? _If only she knew! A dozen powerful men wanted him to be far more than a shipbuilder. His father's friends kept pushing him towards the powder keg that was Ulster politics, while Ismay and Uncle Will were trying to groom him to take over Harland & Wolff. They all wanted a leader! But Thomas had to wonder if his easygoing nature, his honest and humble diligence which had served him well thus far, would turn against him in the highest and most ruthless levels of business and politics.

He thought of Alexander Carlisle's fierce advocacy for more lifeboats. Thomas privately agreed with Carlisle, and greatly admired his colleague's conviction. But that kind of courage carried risks for even the most respected of men. When Carlisle lost his fight against Uncle Will and the White Star, he was essentially forced into retirement. An older gentleman, and independently wealthy, Carlisle could afford to take that risk. Thomas, however, still relied on his salary- and Harland & Wolff was the only workplace he had ever known…

So he held back and tried to continue Carlisle's fight quietly, subtly. Were his actions guided by prudence, or by cowardice? Some days, when the pressure was too great, he wasn't so sure… And Maggie thought that _he _didn't know what it was like to be scrutinized!

"I can't understand?" he growled, bitter. "Well, I don't know how anyone can understand _you, _Margaret Brown. If ye suspected last night that this'd happen- and I know ye did- then why in God's name did ye come with me?" He leaned in close, scowling; he knew his stance was overbearing, but he didn't care. She had struck a nerve! "_Why?_" he demanded.

She crossed her arms and stared at the floor, mute. He waited. Didn't he at least deserve an honest answer from her? Even if he was a little afraid of what her truth might be…

"I'm going back," she snapped, pushing past him. "Wait here a few minutes. _Don't_ follow me."

He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes heavenward as the door clicked shut behind her. Then the idle room before him caught his attention. He pulled out his notebook. _Convert reading and writing room into more staterooms._


	9. Sleep Soundly, Young Rose

**IX. Sleep Soundly, Young Rose**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film: **Dialogue and movement between the bridge and "The next stop will be the engine room!" is from James Cameron's _Titanic_

(line)

_Sunday, 14 April, 1912_

My dearest Nellie,

I'm dreadfully sorry, my love. I know I let you down, not having the clout to change the name of 401, or to get more lifeboats on her. I fear that I will never have that kind of power. I'm not that kind of man.

(line)

Thomas balled up the sheet of stationery and tossed it in his stateroom's wastebasket. He set out for the bridge, in search of more work to do. A welcome distraction. Thomas may have been far from perfect, but _Titanic_ was as near to perfect as human brains could make her. Until luncheon, he would take comfort in her crewmen's passages and corridors, seeking little ways to make her more perfect still.

(line)

One can hardly be born into one of the most prominent families in Ireland's linen industry, and marry the daughter of another such family, without having a sense of fashion. Although the men in the shipyard or the engine rooms would hardly guess, Thomas knew how to dress with more style than many men with three times his wealth.

After luncheon, he took a long, hot shower, and took his time shaving particularly close. He dressed in his finest pair of tailored, black, peg top wool trousers, sharply creased. His pale blue dress shirt was tailored as well, made of the finest linen- of course. He fastened a high, starched wing collar and picked out his favorite silk four-in-hand tie, midnight blue with small white dots. He shined his best shoes. He selected a charcoal gray waistcoat to wear beneath the best suit coat he had aboard. It was also his newest suit coat, tailored for him only a month ago. Black wool, with the larger lapels that were coming into vogue these days. He carefully slipped a white silk handkerchief into the breast pocket.

He stood before the mirror and brushed his hair into a perfect side part. He was just beginning to go gray. That was good; it communicated maturity, stability. Those stubborn Irish curls, on the other hand… He would go to the ship's barber tomorrow for a trim, but for now a little extra mousse would do the trick.

When he finished with his hair, he put on a few extra sprays of the cologne Helen bought him for Christmas. It was a clean, strong, wooden scent with a hint of lavender, from London's famous Geo F. Trumper. He slipped his watch into his waistcoat pocket. As a final touch, he tucked his best outdoor walking accessories beneath his arm, alongside his planning notebook: a black Homburg fedora and a pair of black leather gloves.

If Ismay wanted "presence" for his precious first-class darlings, Thomas would give them presence indeed.

At 3:00 sharp, according to his pocket watch, the reception room contained over sixty people. Twenty percent of the first-class passengers- that was a much better turnout than on the _Olympic. _However, Thomas knew the two biggest advertisers of this tour over the last two days had been Maggie and Ismay. The former was a benevolent "confabulator" by her own admission, and the latter… well…

There were bound to be misconceptions about the nature of this tour among the crowd. Not everyone who was dragged here by a friend or spouse would be up for what Thomas had to offer, and they would only drain the enthusiasm of the group if they stayed for too long. Luckily, he had developed a strategy to handle this situation on _Olympic_'s maiden voyage.

It was time to separate the wheat from the chaff.

"Good afternoon, everyone!" Thomas called above the din. Rose looked up and caught his gaze; she gestured _shh!_ at other passengers with her white gloved hands. As they fell quiet, he cleared his throat. "For those of you whose acquaintance I've not yet had the pleasure of making, my name is Thomas Andrews Jr." He spoke loud and clear, giving his brogue slightly freer rein than he usually did in front of non-Irish people of prominence. If they were to witness him going into rhapsodies about the engines, the ship's plumbing, or the layout of the promenade decks, then they had better find his accent tolerable. "I am the head of the design department and managing director of Harland & Wolff, the shipyard where _Titanic _was born."

They were all with him so far…

"Today I will be giving you an approximately two hour tour of _Titanic_'s facilities, accommodations for all three classes, and even her engine rooms." Inclusion of the engine rooms in his opening speech was key. He saw a few faces in the crowd already turn uneasy. "This tour is not for everyone, and I take no offense if you decline to attend. If you simply require information about where things are located on the ship, you can ask any one of _Titanic_'s 286 stewards at any time. If you wish to learn more about her first-class accommodations and facilities only, our very own J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of the White Star Line, will be more than happy to educate you." That earned him a few knowing chuckles. "However, if you wish to learn _what it takes," _he gestured grandly at their surroundings,"to build, equip, and run a floating miniature city for a week at sea, well…" He bowed. "Follow me."

A murmur went up through the crowd. Many heads shook _no._ Thomas was relieved to see J.J. Astor discreetly lead away his young wife Madeleine, who was in a delicate condition. Dozens who were simply not all that interested in the ship walked away, most avoiding any eye contact with Thomas. He was left with a group of about twenty, including Caledon Hockley and the DeWitt Bukaters.

He led them aft, through the saloon and into the pantry. He dropped a few impressive names: Stonier & Co. of Liverpool supplied the ship's china, (except the Café Parisian's, which was Royal Crown Derby.) The tens of thousands of utensils aboard were all from Goldsmiths & Silversmiths Co. Ltd. of London. There were appreciative "oohs" and "ahhs." Then he took them into the galley and pointed out the various activities of kitchen stewards preparing for first and second class dinner.

Ruth DeWitt Bukater narrowed her eyes and drew her elbows in close to her body. "Mr. Andrews, are first and second class dishes prepared side by side?"

Rose groaned. "_Mother._"

"In many cases they are, in fact, the same dishes," Thomas replied. He gave Rose a half-smile. _Your mother's not going to like that, now is she?_ "Second class is given fewer courses and options- no caviar, unfortunately- but their menu is based upon the same fine meals that we have in first class each day. Steerage has its own galley, however," he added. He didn't want to be responsible for giving an aging "old money" socialite a heart attack. "Any questions before we continue on to the ship's hospital?" Rose was staring at the cupboards as hurried stewards pulled out supplies. "Young Rose?" Thomas asked pointedly.

"Mr. Andrews, is all the food for this week's voyage in those cupboards?"

"Actually, we restock between each meal; supplies are stored in refrigerators on G deck, which we will visit later." As they began heading aft again, he threw in a bit of trivia: "The quantities of supplies aboard _Titanic_ are quite staggering. For example, we left Southampton with _forty tons_ of potatoes. And six thousand pounds of lettuce!" He added that second one because he had noticed, after taking several meals with her, that Rose enjoyed a good salad.

"How many people are aboard?" she asked.

"2,225, give or take a few. _Titanic_ can carry a thousand more, but with the recent coal strike and the low season, she's underbooked."

"Well, then, you have a little less than three pounds of lettuce per person for a week-long journey," Rose told him. "The overall quantity seems very large, sir, but in reality it's quite reasonable."

He stopped short of the door to the ship's hospital. "That's true, Rose, and very astute. Did you just figure that in your head?"

"Yes sir," she blushed.

Rose's wit and curiosity only became more apparent as the tour progressed. Other women, including her mother, were in awe of the finer things of the ship and suspicious of everything else. The men, most notably Rose's fiance, only asked questions or made comments to try and give the impression that they were already experts concerning _Titanic._ Rose's questions went deeper, and ranged from engineering to aesthetics to personnel. She would get ahead of them, making inquiries that Thomas would have answered anyway in a later part of the tour. She seemed to want to know where everything came from, and how everything worked:

_Mr. Andrews, where did the books in the reading and writing room come from?… What does that crane do?… Why is the aft Grand Staircase smaller than the fore?… Who carved Honour and Glory Crowning Time, and how long did it take them to do it?… Why are there three rows of rivets in some places in the hull, and only two in others?... How do the stewards assist steerage passengers who don't speak English?… Where does the ship's electricity come from?..._

Good heavens! If only a hundred passengers showed this much of an interest in his ship, Thomas would never get any work done at sea! Rose's endless questions were slowing them down some, but he certainly didn't mind. He had planned a route that stayed near the first-class accommodations at the start, so people could discreetly drop out if they became overwhelmed. By the time they reached the bridge, the group had dwindled to Sir Cosmo and Lady Lucille Duff Gordon, Benjamin Guggenheim, Caledon Hockley, and the DeWitt Bukaters.

Thomas was in the midst of explaining to a quizzical Ruth why they had two helms, when the radio operator appeared with a message for Captain Smith. "Excuse me, sir. Another ice warning. This one's from the _Noordam._"

Thomas looked out over the sea on starboard side. It was still as glass. Just then, Ismay walked onto the bridge with a cup of tea. He and Thomas nodded cordially in greeting, as if their argument the day before had never happened.

"Oh, not to worry!" Smith was telling the DeWitt Bukaters, who both looked concerned. He playfully wagged the message in front of them. "Quite normal for this time of year. In fact, we're speeding up." He gave them his best 'Captain's smile.' "I've just ordered the last boilers lit."

Thomas scowled slightly. "Next stop is the gymnasium; this way, please." He rushed off the bridge, his tour group scrambling to keep up. Smith's cavalier attitude had flared his anger. They were easily on-time at their current speed! What was the captain thinking, speeding up unnecessarily- and as they were preparing to sail south of the Grand Banks?

Thomas knew that Smith had been slightly less than truthful with the DeWitt Bukaters in saying the iceberg warnings were normal. He saw how many notices were tacked on the bulletin board at the bridge; he heard the crew's whispers. Ice warnings were indeednormal in April- but not this many. The newspapers said the winter of 1911-1912 had been the warmest in over fifty years. That meant the last time that there were this many floes breaking off the coast of Greenland, their experienced and dependable Captain Smith was just a schoolboy.

While Mr. McCawley bragged about his gymnasium, Thomas mulled things over. Perhaps he could talk to Smith after the tour, convince him to see reason. He led the tour onto the boat deck, explaining how the numbers on each hull described the boat's size and capacity to the trained eye. They took a leisurely stroll in the bracing wind, Thomas walking alongside Rose as she read the numbers posted on each boat.

"Mr. Andrews, forgive me…" she started, sounding much more tentative than she had been for the past hour and a half. "I did the sum in my head, and with the number of lifeboats times the capacity you mentioned…"

Their pace slowed. Thomas looked down at his notebook. He knew what was coming.

"…forgive me, but… it seems that there are not enough for everyone aboard."

He and Rose's family had stopped entirely. All eyes were on Rose: Ruth's reproachful, Cal's possessive, Thomas's careful and considering. "Bout half, actually." He smiled in spite of himself. She really was quick with the arithmetic! "Rose, you miss nothing_, _do you? In fact, I put in these new type davits…"

He gestured, and they squinted down the sunny deck after his hand.

"…which can take an extra row full, _inside_ this one." He sighed and turned towards her again, his tone wry, "But it was thought, by _some_, that the deck would look too cluttered. So I was overruled."

"Waste of deck space as it is, on an unsinkable ship!" Hockley smacked his cane against the nearest boat. Rose flinched at her fiance's sudden move.

As they resumed their stroll, Thomas reassured her, "Sleep soundly, young Rose. I've built you a good ship, strong and true. She's all the lifeboat you need." Rose did not look convinced. Her expression reminded Thomas of when she pretended to be satisfied with Hockley's ordering for her at the Café Parisian. He moved ahead to lead the rest of the group: "Just keep heading aft; the next stop will be the engine room!"

He was leading the group down a plain, cramped, crewmen's staircase to orlop deck when he heard Ruth murmur behind him, "Now where could she have run off to _this_ time?" He turned around. Rose was gone, and Hockley and Ruth looked more annoyed than concerned.

"Wait here, I'll go up and check," Thomas offered. He wasn't about to lose his best tour group member!

He found her walking aft on the boat deck as quickly as her corset and heels would allow, bobbing dangerously from the effort. "Mr. Andrews! I… I'm sorry, I just fell behind for a moment…"

"No need to apologize, dear Rose." He placed a hand at her elbow. She slowed down and they walked together. He proffered his handkerchief; her eyes were filled with tears. "In fact, I'm afraid I must apologize to you, for being rather blasé about the boats. You see," he sighed. "It was not my idea, to have so few. But, difficult as it may be for you to believe, I am still considered quite young." He smiled sheepishly. "At least in business matters of such a high caliber as _Titanic._"

She managed a trembling smile.

"I'm afraid my lack of seniority has kept me from advocating more strongly for safety measures. But I assure you, Rose: I plan to remedy the lack of boats as soon as we dock in New York." He realized only as he spoke that this was true.

She blew her nose, then looked up at him, wide-eyed. "Thank you, Mr. Andrews, but… it's not the boats that upset me…"

"Sweetpea!" Hockley emerged on the steps to A-deck, casually swinging that awful, heavy cane. Thomas felt Rose's arm tense. She obediently left his side for Cal's. "Come along, now. You mustn't hold up the group like this! I'm sure poor old Mr. Andrews is tired of your whims and questions by now."

"Oh, not at all, sir," Thomas said cheerfully, but to himself he scoffed, _Poor "old" Mr. Andrews? I believe I'm not a decade your senior, Mr. Hockley!_

On orlop deck, Thomas gave the group members the option of venturing onto the catwalk above the reciprocating engines, or waiting on the switchboard platform if they were not so inclined. Ruth and Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon stayed behind. Sir Cosmo, Guggenheim and Hockley strode out ahead of Thomas and Rose. Cal was bragging to the older two men about the Hockley steel included in the construction of the engines.

Rose spread her arms wide, placed her hands on the catwalk rail, and simply stared. Thomas was about to explain to her how the ship's electricity was harnessed from the engines' power, when she turned to him. Her smile was open and relaxed, her eyes sparkling. "This is the heart of the ship, isn't it?" That fire in her- the one that ignited during the Freud joke, or in the steerage commons- it had clearly sparked again.

"Indeed it is, Rose! I must admit," Thomas chortled, "the engine rooms, boiler rooms, and even the hold are some of my favorite places on a ship. There's so much to see and do!" He gestured proudly over the busy yet orderly scene. "Machinery and cargo to check, crewmen to speak with…"

"But no passengers," Rose pointed out. She sighed. "It must be nice to come down here and escape from all the trivial chatter above deck…" The fire in her seemed to be going out again. Though she kept her head high, ever the proper lady, her eyes were downcast. "The same mindless parties and narrow people, day after day…"

Unthinkingly, Thomas blurted, "You're too bright and spirited a young lady for all of this."

His bold comment alarmed her. "_What?_"

"Well." Embarrassed, he looked out over the gleaming metal engines as he explained. "What I mean is… You have a lot to offer this world, young Rose. Just don't give up. Life isn't always what we expect, but if you just keep making a try for it, things are sure to turn out fine in the end…"

He stopped short. Rose had begun to weep. Her head was bowed forward, and the tears slowly slid down her full lashes and splashed the catwalk rail. The sight paralyzed him.

Hockley appeared, making quips about women and machinery never mixing well. He put his arm around Rose, and escorted her and Ruth back to their suite. Thomas ran through the motions of the rest of the tour: fore on G deck to the squash court and post office, then up to F deck to the swimming bath, then he brought them back to the reception room where they began, thanking them all for their time.

On his way up to boat deck to speak to Captain Smith, he was stopped in the Grand Staircase by J. Bruce Ismay.

(line)

**A/N:** The book _Titanic: Triumph and Tragedy, _by John P. Eaton and Charles A. Haas, has been instrumental in minor edits for accuracy of the ship layout in my earlier chapters. This chapter, however, simply could not have been written without it, so it deserves a mention outside the references page!


	10. Day of Rest

**X. Day of Rest**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**No disrespect intended** to the memory of the real J. Bruce Ismay. This story is fictional and is not intended to imply the real man would have stooped this low. See ch. 6 disclaimer for more details.

**A/N:** I'm a little paranoid about readers thinking that Ismay's accusing Thomas of being diseased, so I just wanted to clarify that he uses the word "choleric" in the sense of the classical Greek humors, where "choleric" essentially means restless and irritable.

(line)

_A memory: Tuesday, 2 April, 1912_

"A pity the sea trials were postponed," Thomas muttered as he and his valet brought his luggage out to the motorcar. The air was moist and still in the predawn. "Now we're up before the larks, and with one day fewer in which to get everything done…"

"Indeed, sir," the valet agreed as they wrestled a heavy trunk into the boot of the motorcar. "But I daresay an extra night at home was of some comfort to you."

In the light from the sconces by the front door, Thomas saw his servant, usually well-mannered, wink at him. "James!" he laughed. "Really, now!" He felt a warm flush creep over his face. It was true; Helen didn't sleep in her own room last night. Thomas and Helen had both known what they wanted. They craved each other in advance, well aware of the full month of solitude ahead. There was an earnestness to their desire; it felt like their honeymoon all over again…

In the restful lull afterwards, he had kissed her in secret places and whispered: _Come with me… I know it's too late this time… But next time. Please._

Thomas and Helen's handful of household staff were assembling by the entryway for the formal send-off, though it seemed a bit absurd at 4:30 in the morning. Some of them were falling asleep against the front porch's Greco Roman columns. Thomas gave Helen a peck on the cheek, public and polite. Her deep blue eyes smoldered with a desire for more, mixed with unanswered, fearful questions. _I know you're frightened of the sea, dear. So am I sometimes._ He cupped her smooth, pale cheek in his hand.

The nanny appeared in the doorway with Elba in her arms. "She was up anyway," she hastily explained.

Without a word, Thomas extended his arms. At sixteen months, Elba knew the routine. The sturdy toddler readily balanced herself against his side. He kissed her feathery light brown hair. "Be a dear for Mummy, sweetheart." It was the same thing he told her before leaving for work each morning. She giggled and gently placed her little hands up around his shoulders.

The nanny cooed, "Now say goodbye to Daddy, love. He's going away on his _big ship _and won't be back for a _long time._" Elba's nanny (like the rest of the world) was only excited about _Titanic_, but it was tactless, really. Thomas had hoped to leave without causing any fuss for his little girl. But now, Elba's arms tightened around him. She began to whimper. He moved to hand her off to Helen.

"Go with Mummy, sweetheart-"

"Nooo…"

"Elba." Helen's voice trembled. "It's alright, dear, now come along-"

"_Nooo!" _she wailed. Both Helen and the nanny had to work to pull her away. None of the staff were asleep now; they smiled, waved and called goodbye with exaggerated cheer. As Thomas walked backwards to the motorcar, he responded just as gaily, hoping to calm Elba down. Her little face was still red and tear-streaked as the car pulled away.

They crested a hill and saw the lights of Belfast spread before them. _Titanic_ rested in the nocturnal dark of the River Lagan, just out of sight for now. When the sun came up, she would cast her slanted shadow over half a dozen working-class city blocks.

Thomas swallowed a lump in his throat. _I hope that was the hardest part of this journey._

(line)

Before he was held up in London on business, J. P. Morgan had booked one of the richest suites aboard; only Caledon Hockley's compared in size and decadence. The suite had two bedrooms, a sitting room, a private bath, and a private promenade deck. In Morgan's absence, J. Bruce Ismay had moved into the suite- alone.

"Have a seat, Thomas." Ismay gestured toward a pair of plush Victorian armchairs arranged before the sitting room window, and Thomas sat down. As the afternoon sun sank low before the bow, their view of the northwest sky streaked from pale gold on the left, then to white, then to pale blues, darkening to cobalt on the right. Ismay turned on a Tiffany lamp before sitting in the other chair.

The end table between them was strewn with note paper. _More embellishment of W.S. logo on wardrobe hangers, _read one line of Ismay's lacy scrawl. Another, _More flower boxes in the private promenades?_ Thomas smiled to himself. Perhaps, behind closed doors, he and J. Bruce Ismay weren't so different after all.

What Ismay said next, however, killed any affection Thomas may have had for the man. "I know where you were headed just now, Thomas. I do hope you remember our discussion yesterday. We are _not_ slowing down."

"Apparently not," Thomas retorted. His voice grew louder with each word. "I hear we're _speeding up!_"

"Thomas-"

"This is madness, Bruce!" He pounded his fist against the end table. "Running 23 knots through the worst ice fields in decades, on a maiden voyage with lost binoculars? It's suicide, so it is!"

"Do you question the Captain's judgment?" Ismay snarled.

"No!" Thomas stood abruptly. He spoke quieter, but no less forcefully, glaring at the seated Englishman. "I question _yours. _Stop pretending to be an innocent passenger, Bruce. You've clearly been twisting Smith's arm; I wouldn't be surprised if some of the passengers have noticed! I just can't understand why you're so desperate for _more headlines, _that you're willing to be reckless with the ship itself." Thomas gestured wildly as his voice grew louder again. "You're the world-renowned White Star Line, for Christ's sake! These cheap press gimmicks should be beneath you!" His chest was heaving as he fell silent, scowling at the businessman.

A vein was throbbing at Ismay's temple. He returned Thomas's livid stare, then got up and retrieved a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece of his private fireplace. He didn't offer one to Thomas. _He's quiet, _Thomas observed. _What does he have up his sleeve?_

"Strange how _you _should question _my _judgment, Thomas." Ismay flicked his lighter, feigning nonchalance. "When you're the one who's been unusually choleric on this voyage." He blew smoke. "Honestly, you weren't at all like this on the _Olympic_. I don't know what's gotten into you. First there was the coal fire, and I still don't know what you had against Hockley last night in the smoking room, but be thankful I stopped you." He shook his head in exasperation. "Strike a man that powerful and you'll never work again. And _then_, there's this whole business with Mrs. Brown…"

Thomas's heart sank. "You heard about last night?"

Ismay's eyes widened. He was seized with laughter so suddenly that he coughed on his cigarette smoke. "So it's _true_?"

It took Ismay a good thirty seconds to stifle his laughter, while Thomas shifted uneasily on the plush carpet.

"Well, everyone knows about Spicer Lovejoy spotting her below decks, and then I saw you chasing her after the Divine Service, so I thought I'd test the waters… But you _really_ went down there with her?" He guffawed openly. "Oh, this is _priceless! _Honestly, Thomas, you could do much better than _her _if you wanted some indiscretions below decks!" He waved his cigarette about with an air of dalliance. "You're still in your prime, old boy! There are much younger, finer women aboard who would be happy to give you whatever your little wifey in Belfast denies you."

_Oh God. Helen! _Thomas shook his head slowly, fearfully."Mr. Ismay, you-" he stammered. "You don't understand. I- I would never-"

Ismay held up his hand to stop him. "Come now, Thomas!" He grinned wickedly. "It's natural after a man's been married a few years! I honestly couldn't care less… Unless I believe it's a symptom of poor judgment in general, in which case, I'm afraid I may have to inform the captain." He shrugged. "And from there, well, I can't control who says what to whom, you understand…"

Neither man harbored pretensions that this was anything besides pure and simple blackmail. For a moment, they were both silent. Thomas was torn. He couldn't let Ismay run the ship unchecked; the man had just moved beyond desperate to Machiavellian. But last night had already tarnished poor Maggie; Thomas would be devastated if it hurt Helen, too. If he could only ensure Ismay's silence, then he could work out a way to approach Smith without his knowledge…

"I understand, Mr. Ismay."

Ismay nodded slowly in approval. "Good." His tone was suddenly warm again, almost paternal. "Now, forget about ice floes and coal fires, Thomas, and give your troubled mind a little reprieve this evening." He chuckled. "It is the Lord's day of rest, after all."

(line)

Thomas stood on the portside A-deck promenade, and watched the cloudless sky wash seamlessly from blue, to white, to the golden prelude of another flawless sunset. He shivered and turned around, noticing that he was the only one standing out here. The temperature had dropped drastically this afternoon. Even on an enclosed promenade with a glass heater, the chill was apparent. Thomas huddled in his suit coat as he walked inside.

He arrived a few minutes late to dinner. Maggie was seated with the Astors. Thomas had taken several meals with the three of them. Young Madeleine was a dear, sweet woman who thought the world of Maggie. J.J. could be a bit pretentious, but was benevolent enough for a man of his great wealth. The couple would act as a buffer between poor Maggie and the vicious gossipers. Thomas thought of taking shelter with them as well, but then he remembered Maggie's words earlier today: _Don't follow me. _He nodded politely to J.J. and carried on.

He passed a round table seating a dozen of the ship's most glamorous passengers. Thomas saw many of the same guests from the dinner party Jack attended on Friday, though Hockley and the DeWitt Bukaters were conspicuously absent. As stewards snuck champagne and caviar in by the passengers' elbows, the wealthy diners passed a slip of paper around the table.

"I say, Bruce, is it serious?"

Ismay held his head high and straightened his bow tie. "Not at all," he replied to Colonel Gracie. "It's mostly a pretext for sending a message to _Titanic._" A smile played beneath his slick mustache."And possibly having the honor of her sending one back!"

The table erupted in laughter. Their plaything was yet another ice warning! _Why the hell did Smith give him that?_ In that moment, neither concerns for his career, nor love of _Titanic_ herself, stopped Thomas from lunging forward and grabbing Ismay by the tuxedo lapels. Only the thought of Helen stopped him. Her smile, her embrace, her gentle humor, her keen mind… and above all, her loyalty.

Thomas sat alone at a small table, in a corner by the pantry entrance. To give any onlookers an excuse for his solitude, he pulled out his notebook and pretended to be hard at work. But he didn't know what to do next. Should he distract himself with the usual, miscellaneous needed improvements? Should he plan when and where to speak with Captain Smith? Should he draft the telegram he would send tomorrow, explaining to J. P. Morgan why he was ordering more lifeboats without Mr. Ismay's permission? Perhaps he should even write a note of apology to Rose DeWitt Bukater for his words to her today…

The steward came and went with seltzer water, breadsticks, hors d'oeuvres, cream of barley soup, salmon with mousseline sauce... None of it seemed appetizing tonight. Suddenly, Thomas thought he heard faint voices coming from the direction of the pantry, joined in a hymn. A beautiful old Irish hymn, at that.

_Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,_

_Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art…_

Thomas sighed and leaned his forehead against his hand. His silver-tinged locks were reverting to their natural, improper wave. _And now I'm hearing things. That's just grand!_

"The second-class saloon, sir," the steward explained when he saw Thomas peering tired-eyed into the pantry. "One of the second-class passengers is a minister, and he's leading a sort of impromptu hymn sing." He took the plate of salmon which, like everything else tonight, was going cold half-uneaten. "Shall I bring out the filet mignon, sir?"

"No thank you, Mr. Bristow." Suddenly purposeful, Thomas stood up and closed his notebook. "I'm afraid I'm not very peckish this evening, but do send my compliments to the chef."

(line)

There had to be quite a crowd for the singing to be heard as far away as the first class saloon. Sure enough, Thomas arrived to find nearly two hundred people seated in the upholstered swiveling chairs flanking the long, plain tables. Some were still eating dessert as the stewards cleared away the remnants of dinner. A bearded, middle-aged man played the upright piano near the fore of the large room. He was just finishing "Be Thou My Vision." As Thomas walked in, he lent his firm tenor voice to the final strain:

_High King of heaven, whatever befall,_

_Still be my vision, O ruler of all._

He took a seat on the edge of the crowd. A young couple nearby passed him a hymnal. The man was tall and ruddy; the woman had a pretty smile and hair dark as a raven's wing. She extended her hand- for a shake. The only first class woman on this voyage who had Thomas shake her hand, rather than kiss it, was Maggie.

"I'm Jane, and this here's Sam." She was American.

He shook her hand, and then his. "I'm Thomas. Pleasure to meet ye both." Jane smiled and turned pink at Thomas's lilting accent.

"He takes requests," Sam offered helpfully, as the minister struck up a tune that Thomas did not know. He listened for the refrain, then searched for the words in his hymnal, but to no avail. He noticed that only about one in ten people in the crowd had a hymnal at all, and their covers came in all different colors and boasted the names of different denominations. Impromptu, indeed! Thomas had to sit this one out and listen:

_His oath, His covenant and blood_

_Support me in the whelming flood…_

Not all of the song transitions were seamless. Sometimes a song ended and five different ones were immediately requested; sometimes there was a two-minute pause before someone thought of another tune. With the lack of hymnals, people would sometimes sing or hum a few lines and demand of the crowd around them, "What's that one called again? You've heard that one, right?" Between Lutherans and Episcopalians, Catholics and Presbyterians, there were differences in familiarity with the songs, which verses were included, or their page numbers in the hymnals. But all of it was handled with easy conversation and gentle laughter.

Except for the occasional smile in greeting, the other passengers let Thomas keep to himself. He saw some of them take note of his fine attire, but no one seemed to recognize him, or whisper about him amongst their companions. He was allowed to simply _be._ His mind finally began to rest.

"One more and we should all get to bed," said the minister at the piano. Thomas took out his pocket watch. 9:55. They ended with the traditional final hymn at sea, "Eternal Father, Strong to Save." Thomas closed his eyes and prayed as the others sang.

_Eternal Father, strong to save_

_Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,_

_Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep_

_Its own appointed limits keep;_

_Oh hear us when we cry to Thee_

_For those who peril on the sea!..._

(line)

Thomas returned to his stateroom, shrugged out of his suit coat, and requested a steward turn up the heater a bit and bring him a glass of red wine. He wrote his daily note to Nellie, then spread some blueprints and planning books across his desk.

He could work undisturbed for the rest of the night. Stateroom A-36 was a comfortably large cabin with a private bath. It was situated many yards aft of the other A-deck accommodations, tucked into a corner of the aft Grand Staircase entryway. Thomas's name did appear on the "cave list" given to first-class passengers upon boarding, but his stateroom number did not. While the crew could find him easily, few socialites aboard even knew that this room existed.

He really ought to spend more time in here during the rest of the voyage…

He had been at work for over an hour, (though it felt like five minutes,) when the wine in the glass at his elbow began to ripple. He looked up at the beaded chandelier above his desk. The beads were dancing in place. Strange, how little things like standing liquid and hanging beads could detect a disturbance more easily than a man himself. _I hope there's no trouble with the ship,_ Thomas thought, his brow furrowed. Then the shaking stopped, and the blueprints caught his attention again: _Well, if there is, I'm sure they'll send for me._

There was a knock on the door a few moments later. Thomas answered to find a nervous young steward. "The captain needs you on the bridge, sir, immediately." With that he scampered off. _Rather unprofessional, that one,_ Thomas scoffed. …_I wonder what has him so upset?_

The question to himself was a bit startling. Before heading quickly down the corridor, Thomas rolled up some of the main blueprints, donned his suit coat again…

And his overcoat.

(line)

**A/N: **Yes, "Alias" fans, I made the steward's name Bristow on purpose. :-D But no, I didn't make it up! I found a website with a full list of _Titanic _crew, and there was a first-class saloon steward named Harold Bristow, from Kent, England. Like our dear Thomas, he perished in the sinking at the age of 39. (Sam and Jane on the other hand, I just made up- lazy me!)


	11. A Mathematical Certainty

**XI. A Mathematical Certainty**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film: **This chapter slips in and out of scenes in James Cameron's _Titanic_ repeatedly, so I won't bother pointing out each one. You've all seen the film, so you'll know which parts of the chapter are original, and which are elaborations on film scenes from Thomas's POV.

(line)

_Sunday, 14 April, 1912_

My dearest Nellie,

The weather is much colder today, as we have sailed into an Arctic front, but the sky and sea are still perfectly calm. I gave the first-class tour this afternoon, and then I rested. Yes, darling, I _rested,_ for nearly half the Sabbath. Do try not to be shocked! Mr Ismay believes I have overexerted myself on this voyage, and I think he may be right for once. Though it is not the ship, but her passengers, with whom I have been overly concerned. I am afraid I have meddled in some affairs a bit too much, and I am not proud of it.

Tomorrow I am going to message the New York office and order more lifeboats to be brought aboard on Wednesday. Mr Ismay has not signed off on this idea. I imagine Mr Morgan will be displeased, (to put it lightly,) and Uncle Will is surely going to demand an explanation from me. My explanation is simple enough: It is the right thing to do.

You see, my dear, I spent some time in prayer this evening, asking the Almighty to give me His peace and strength so that on the rest of this voyage, I can do you proud: you and Elba, Harland & Wolff, and even _Titanic _herself. Ultimately this ship is God's to care for, but no matter what happens, I hope to do my best as His (and her) humble servant.

I cannot tell you how much I miss you and our Elba. Know that you are forever in my thoughts. Give Elba a kiss from me.

Yours,

Tommie

(line)

Thomas, Captain Smith, and several officers barreled across the frigid promenade to the bridge. Ismay joined them unbidden, still in a robe, pajamas, and fluffy slippers embroidered with the White Star insignia. "Most unfortunate, Captain!" he boomed. Thomas had just surveyed the damage firsthand with the captain; Ismay didn't know how right he was.

The mailroom was already completely underwater, the holds at the ship's fore were flooding fast, and boiler room six filled with abysmal steam as icy water hit the boilers. The G-deck squash court was beginning to flood from below, in eerie silence. In the large and empty room, the slight starboard list was obvious. So was the ship's forward tilt. Less than fifteen minutes after striking an iceberg, she looked to be about five degrees down.

Thomas rolled out the blueprint across the desk. His hands trembled as he laid the paperweights. "Water. Fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes. In the forepeak, and in all three holds… and in boiler room six," he finished breathlessly.

"That's right, sir," confirmed an officer.

"When can we get underway, dammit?" Ismay growled.

"That's five compartments!" Thomas was furious; how could Ismay not see the gravity of the situation? How could they _all _not see it? It was so obvious that Thomas could see nothing else! "She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached, but not five." The room was silent except for Thomas's own ragged breath. He turned towards puzzled Captain Smith; it was critical that he understand. "Not five."

More silence.

"As she goes down by the head," (words Thomas never thought he would say about _Titanic_,) "the water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads." He gestured across the blueprint. "At E deck. From one, to the next. Back, and back. There's no stopping it."

Thomas was nearly panting in fear. Smith merely stared. Ismay had scuttled to the back of the room, behind Thomas, like a guilty pupil fleeing the schoolmaster's line of view. "The pumps," Smith offered, indicating them on the blueprint. "If we open the doors-"

"The pumps buy you time!" Thomas shook his head. "But minutes only." The captain stopped still, shocked. At last, he understood. "From this moment, no matter what we do… _Titanic _will founder."

A pall came over the bridge. Ismay broke it first. "But this ship can't sink!" he blustered.

"She's made of iron, sir! I assure you, she can!" Thomas snapped. "And she will," he added. Like it or not, Ismay had to understand, too. "It is a mathematical certainty."

Ismay was wide-eyed. For once, it seemed he had nothing to say for himself. Thomas squared his jaw and fleetingly considered decking the Englishman, before turning back to the blueprint instead.

Smith's eyes darted between Thomas and the blueprint. The good captain was trying to recover his steady seaman's calm. "How much time?"

_Dear God… Fourteen feet in ten minutes means it's a fast leak… Factor in the possibility of the weakened bulkhead between boiler rooms six and five giving way, and she'll be down faster still… _Thomas estimated the time to fill each bulkhead, then counted them off.The results of his calculations made him break into a cold sweat:

"An hour. Two at the most."

(line)

First Officer William Murdoch had the face of a twenty-five-year-old, but was in fact mere weeks younger than Thomas, a seasoned seaman with a reputation for being dependable and clear-minded. However, when Smith asked Murdoch how many were aboard, Thomas could tell he was close to tears. He had been the officer in charge when they struck the iceberg, and likely felt responsible.

Murdoch's Adam's apple was bobbing furiously, and he didn't follow the other officers back on deck. No one else seemed to notice. Out of concern for preventing a panic, as well as compassion for the man, Thomas asked, "Alright there, Will?"

Murdoch's eyes glistened. "I tried to port round it, sir-"

"I know, Mr. Murdoch. You did your duty well. But there's still more to do." Thomas gestured for Murdoch to join him at the desk, and the officer slowly complied. They looked down at the abandoned blueprint. The little pointed ovals on boat deck, indicating lifeboats- there were eight on each side. In addition, the ship carried four collapsible boats. "We have enough seats in the boats for every woman and child aboard," Thomas stated, still breathless with worry. "And room to spare for two, perhaps three hundred men."

The Scotsman slowly placed his hands at the bottom of the print and leaned forward, his eyes downcast. "Mr. Andrews." His voice trembled. "I'm so sorry."

Thomas clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Now don't ye go sayin that, Will! As we speak, they're doin everything they can to signal other ships nearby_._ They'll come for the rest of our men. In the meantime, what matters is gettin the lifeboats full. And with no panic." He tried to smile, and tried to make eye contact with Murdoch. Both efforts failed.

"But your ship, sir…" Murdoch's voice was small and broken.

Fighting to keep his own voice steady, Thomas declared, "She's only iron and wood, Mr. Murdoch! It's the people aboard her that matter. Now, Captain Smith has you in charge of the boats on starboard, if I'm correct?" Murdoch looked up and nodded. Thomas waited for the officer's gaze to become steady, then nodded back. "Good man, Will." Murdoch walked out onto the deck.

Thomas wished he believed his own comfort to Will. He did hold out hope on a ship on their horizon. If only because the alternative- what might happen if the other shipdidn't respond to _Titanic_'s radio calls, or notice her distress flares- was too horrifying to imagine...

But _Titanic _was far more to him than iron and wood. He lifted the paperweights and hastily rolled up the blueprints. He just couldn't look at them, thinking of the thousands of hours that had been dedicated to them in the lofty drawing rooms of Harland & Wolff. The minds of hundreds of men, and the hands of thousands more, toiling for two years to give _Titanic_ life… only for her to die before seeing New York.

He walked out onto the port side of boat deck. Every breath released a puff of fog into the bitter cold night. The funnels were releasing a tremendous amount of steam from boilers and engines meeting the floodwaters. The noise of it was infernal, like standing beside a steam engine as it left the station- twenty times over. There was no moon tonight. In the ship's sterile lights, Thomas saw the crew hard at work preparing the lifeboats, but no passengers waiting to enter them. He swung down a half-flight of stairs in one leap and ran to the nearest high-ranking officer.

"Mr. Wilde! Where are the passengers?" he demanded.

"They've all gone back inside! Too damn cold and noisy for them!" Chief Officer Wilde bellowed in reply. With that, he returned to yelling and throwing hand signals to instruct his crew.

Thomas turned away and pulled out his pocket watch. His heart sank. 12:10. Already a half hour since the collision, and, in his worst-case scenario, about fifty minutes before they foundered. At this rate, would they even have time to load the boats?

He went inside, fearing he would find a panic, but what he saw instead was much worse. The first-classers were acting as if they were at a soiree. They chattered gaily as the band played and stewards brought them drinks. He saw J.J. Astor slice open a lifebelt to show his curious little Madeleine what it was made of. Others laughed as the stewards tried to give them lifebelts. "What ever would we need _these_ for? We're far safer here than out in those rickety little boats!"

Thomas stumbled through the gymnasium; after tonight, no one would use that state-of-the-art equipment again. The first-class lounge… those big, airy windows he had so proudly designed would soon shatter. The Grand Staircase… this dome would never let in sunlight again. Honour and Glory Crowning Time would soon be confined to the cruel and timeless depths of the sea…

"Mr. Andrews."

Someone reached out for him as he began to climb the stairs. He turned, numbly, and found young Rose urgently searching his face.

"I saw the iceberg, and I see it in your eyes. Please… tell me the truth?"

He nearly broke down then and there. This beautiful young girl, so wild and strong, and yet in many ways so fragile… For Thomas, there was no more poignant reminder of the humanity aboard his ship. Rose had nearly died three days ago; and now his own oversights had put her back in peril…

He had to tell her. Even if rescuecame too late, even if many perished, he couldn't bear the thought of her being one of them. He stepped down off the staircase and took her by both elbows, gently drawing her close. Quietly, he confessed, "The ship will sink."

She squinted in disbelief. "You're certain?"

"Yes. In an hour, or so-" he glanced at his beautiful dome again. His could scarcely catch his breath. "All this will be at the bottom of the Atlantic."

"_What?_" Hockley scowled. They scarcely noticed his eavesdropping. Thomas watched Rose's eyes widen in terror.

"Please. Tell only who you must. I don't want to be responsible for a panic." Rose's hand flew to her mouth. Thomas grew stern. "And get to a boat. Quickly. Don't wait. You…" his throat constricted "remember… what I told you about the boats?"

Slowly, she nodded. "Yes… I understand."

He nodded in return. _Such a dear girl. _As he continued up the staircase, faster than before, he realized his purpose in whatever time remained. Not crew, yet not quite passenger, he could have easily faded away to mourn his ship. Instead, he would work as hard as any crewman to save the people aboard.

He pulled aside a steward. "Have all the cabins on A deck been evacuated?" The flustered steward nodded. "How about B deck?"

(line)

The stewards assigned to evacuate the B-deck staterooms asked him if he would cover the fore portside corner. He knocked on each door and, when there was no answer, threw them open. The first few staterooms were empty. And then Maggie answered her door.

"Mag- I mean, Mrs. Brown. Please, put on a lifebelt and report to the boat deck immediately."

Her response was brisk. "You got it, Tommie, but we gotta talk first." She pulled him into the room and shut the door. She walked over to the far corner, where her lifebelt lay atop her sitting area table. Blanche Ring's "Come Josephine in my Flying Machine" played on a phonograph. A brandy glass rested on her nightstand, and an earmarked French-language copy of _Madame Bovary_ lay open on the bed, next to two thick fur coats.

"I thought I just saw ye in the Staircase," he said, puzzled. The scene implied that she had not been disturbed now- except for the coats, and the fact that she had already taken her lifebelt out of her wardrobe.

"Ya probably did." She looked down at her plump hands folded in front of her. "I was there a coupla minutes ago."

"Then why're ye here now?"

"Cause…" her full cheeks turned pink. She heaved a sigh, then rushed to say: "I figured ya might come lookin for me."

Well, Maggie was certainly right about one thing earlier today: he couldn't understand her. "Don't ye think I have better things to do?" he retorted. It was the first stupid thing to come to mind.

She looked at him, blinked, looked down again. "Not if it's as bad as I think it is, ya don't."

_It is. If not worse._ "I'm sorry."

She must have thought he meant about their argument earlier. "Me too. I just…" she put her hands on her hips. "I didn't want them hurtin ya like they hurt me, that's all. Ya don't deserve it, Tommie… yer a good man, maybe one of the best I ever met."

He shook his head. "No, Maggie, I'm not. _Titanic_, she's…" A lump in his throat. He looked down, and turned so she wouldn't see as tears pricked his eyes.

She came towards him. "Tommie." Her voice was firm. She put a hand on his arm. "How can I help? _Tommie!_" She gently shook an answer out of him.

He took a deep breath. "The lifeboats… yer fellow socialites don't want to get in, and not all the crew's well-trained."

She nodded intently. "So I gotta coax em in- cheerfully."

"Precisely. There mustn't be a panic, Maggie."

"What about once we get out there? If the boats aren't full…"

"Obey the officers, keep calm, but see if ye can't get em to come back for more." He swallowed hard and touched her elbows. "The important thing is to convince as many people as ye can to _get into the boats._"

Her touch on both his shoulders was gentle. When she spoke, her voice was higher and softer than he'd ever heard it before. "Any chance… I can convince _you_?"

"No." He shook his head, first slowly and then faster, frantic. His voice pitched upward: "No, Maggie, I-"

"Shhh!" She gave him a fierce, tight hug. He wept into her hair, but only for a minute before, gasping, he pulled himself together again. She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his cheek, then repeated, her voice quivering, "Yer a good man, Tommie Andrews. Don'tcha forget it."

She pulled away, blinking furiously, and began to put on her lifebelt. When she spoke again, her voice resumed its normal pitch:

"Have ya seen Rose?"

Thomas's own voice steadied. "I have. And she knows." He took out his pocket watch. 12:30. "You'll… take care of her?"

"Of course." She grabbed the coats, then looked him over for a long moment, sad and gentle. Before he could gather a thought, she was out the door. The cheerful hit single drew to a close on her phonograph:

_Going up! All on? Goodbye!_

(line)

Thomas donned a lifebelt, mostly to encourage passengers to do the same, and continued scouring the corridors. By the time he reached C deck, the stewards evacuating first class were taking their orders from him. It was just as well, with the high-ranking officers all preoccupied on boat deck.

The funnels' blast had faded away. Despite the heaters and lights still running, the corridors were getting chilly. Thomas was astounded by how many people he continued to find below decks. At this point they must have ignored repeated instructions, just in order to go back and fuss over their belongings! Something told him that the stewards evacuating second class and steerage did not have this problem!

From time to time he checked his pocket watch. He entered D deck at 12:50. The ship's forward tilt had stayed at five degrees since midnight. This could be a blessing- or a curse. A blessing, if it meant his calculation of the sinking time was an underestimate. A curse, if the ship was giving the passengers no warning before water overtook the higher decks.

"Mr. Andrews? Mr. Andrews! Thank God!"

_Thank God _was the last phrase Thomas would have used in that moment, as he saw Rose skid to a halt in the corridor's end. She ran to him, her ruby curls bouncing.

"Where would the Master at Arms take someone under arrest?"

He was dismayed. _I told ye to get into a boat, Rose! I told Maggie to make sure of it! _"What are-? Ye have to get to a boat, _right away!_"

"No!" she snapped. Her gaze flitted away from his furious glare. Quiet and steely, she leveled a threat: "I'm doing this with or without your help, sir. But without will take longer."

At first he could only stare and shake his head. _Yer a petulant, impossible child, young Rose. _Then he took her aside, praying no one would overhear. He couldn't believe he was doing this. "Take the elevator to the very bottom." He began walking her towards the lifts. "Go to the left, down the crewman's passage, then go right…"

She sighed and closed her eyes several times during his lengthy instructions, trying to take it in. Then she was off, before he could wish her good luck. Or ask her how the hell Jack managed to get himself arrested during a sinking.

He continued down to E deck. His pocket watch read 1:05. The corridor was empty, except for a light breeze blowing aft. It was the rush of air being pushed above decks by the incoming water. Thomas shivered. He heard a sinister trickling, mere yards away. He began throwing open stateroom doors without knocking. "Anyone in here?" Ten in a row turned up empty. _Finally._

Thomas cried out as a sudden wave swept up to his ankles. Every nerve exposed to the water felt like it had been set afire. _The pain! Dear God, the pain! _He could think of nothing else until he had pulled back. He braced himself against the corridor wall, panting. He felt his pulse throbbing in his feet, his chest, his ears. _I should keep going; there could be people trapped down there… But the pain! _He edged away from the killer's gentle advance._ I don't want to die in that!_

"ANYONE DOWN THERE?"

The only answer was the eerie groan of iron under stress, and a momentary dimming of the corridor lights. By the time they flickered back up, Thomas was running up the stairs.

(line)

He would avoid the water as long as his honor would allow, but Thomas still had to do something useful. He returned to boat deck, portside. The bow was underwater. On the foremost decks that were still dry, a handful of crewmen launched flares into the empty night, one after the next. The ship's orchestra struck up lighthearted tunes, but no one was listening. Women, children, and more than a few men were in tears as the lifeboats were loaded. Some couples and families had to be pulled apart by crewmen. Second Officer Lightoller was in charge on this side, and enforcing "women and children only."

Thomas looked out over the rail. Lifeboats paddled out of the ship's glow like specters fading from view. He was stricken with horror upon observing how many people (or rather, how _few_) were in them. He weaved through the dense crowds to the Second Officer, just as he was forcibly lifting a stubborn passenger into a boat.

"Mr. Lightoller! Why are the lifeboats being launched half-full?"

The gangly younger man pulled away from Thomas's hand at his elbow, annoyed. "Not now, Mr. Andrews!"

"There, look!" Thomas pointed over the officer's shoulder, out to sea. His hand trembled. "Twenty or so, in a boat built for sixty-five?" His desperation was rising. "And I saw one boat with only twelve! _Twelve!_"

Lightoller squirmed away from his ire. The officer's voice was constricted- from anger or from cold, Thomas wasn't sure. "Well we weren't sure of the weight, Mr. Andrews. These boats may buckle."

"Rubbish!" Thomas growled. Unlike Murdoch an hour ago, he felt no pity for the man. "They were tested in Belfast, with the weight of seventy men!" At that, Lightoller's face drained of whatever color it had left. He wouldn't look Thomas in the eye. Thomas snarled, "Now, _fill _these boats, Mr. Lightoller, for God's sake, man!"

He stormed off, down to A deck. His lungs relaxed in the enclosed promenade's warmer air. Ten minutes after his brush with the water, his feet were still smarting. Furious, and utterly helpless, he threw open a sliding glass window, picked up the nearest object that wasn't nailed down- a large deck chair- and flung it overboard. He was careful, even now, not to throw the damn thing where it might hit a lifeboat.

The teak chair arced through the still, frigid air, then bobbed cheerfully atop the dark water. _Well, _Thomas thought ruefully, _that'll keep some poor soul in the water alive for a few extra minutes!_

…_Say, that's not such a bad idea…_

He ran fore, much to the chagrin of the crowds scurrying aft, and began systematically working his way down the deck, throwing each and every chair overboard. Soon there was a tap on his shoulder and a cheerful voice: "May I lend a hand, Mr. Andrews?"

"Mr. Joughin!" The ship's chief baker was red-faced and grinning, and his breath reeked of whisky, but he seemed fairly steady and alert. "Of course you may!" Dark humor getting the better of him, Thomas gestured dramatically towards the chairs. "Grab a chair, any chair, my good man, and chuck the bloody thing overboard!"

Soon there were seven or eight men, of all ages and classes, throwing deck chairs in quiet, purposeful communion. Thomas showed them to the chair storage areas on this promenade, and they diligently worked to empty those too.

"I leave things in your capable hands, Mr. Joughin! When you finish here, start with the chairs on boat deck; I'll start the effort on starboard side!"

"Right! Godspeed, Mr. Andrews!"

Thomas was seized by the grim reality again at the fore of A deck. He had become sweaty from throwing chairs, and the moisture froze to his skin as soon as he left the covered portion of the promenade. The ship was down nearly fifteen degrees now. Below him, the churning floodwaters lapped the fore of B deck. Above him on boat deck, they continued to launch more flares. The passengers' cries and pleas up there were becoming more brutal, and more masculine. A gunshot was fired in warning. Lightoller's barking command carried unnaturally far in the brittle air:

"Keep order here! Keep order, I say!"

On starboard side, people were trying to jump into lifeboats as they were lowered past the A-deck promenade. "Stay back, you dogs!" hollered a panicked officer, firing more warning shots. His boat's passengers huddled in their seats, staring numbly at the doomed souls crowding the deck.

The chair storage areas were empty; someone on this side already had the same idea as Thomas. He saw a cluster of young men tying the last few deck chairs together into a makeshift raft, then working together to heave it overboard. Then, they started pulling off their shoes and jackets.

Thomas ran towards them "Stop! Don't do it!" One lad had begun climbing onto the rail when they heard Thomas and pulled back. He breathlessly explained, "The water is freezing… It's agony, and it can kill in minutes. You don't want to jump in until you have to. Do you understand me?" They trembled at his words, but nodded. "Good."

He ran aft, not an easy feat at this angle and in such fine shoes. Two chairs remained on the promenade- occupied. He stopped in front of Mr. and Mrs. Straus. The wealthy older couple smiled up at him, serenely.

"I know what you're going to say, Mr. Andrews." Ida placed her hand on the arm of Isidor's fine tuxedo. "But I'm not leaving him. For over forty years, wherever he's gone, I've gone as well."

He didn't know what to say. By now even the passengers were well aware that there were not enough boats, and help might not come on time. By calmly staying behind, the Strauses chose to give two others a fighting chance. Ida, in particular, could have easily escaped, yet she chose to stay and comfort the love of her life in his final moments... Never in a million years would Thomas want Helen here now, but seeing this couple here together… it was a touch of beauty amidst madness.

"Right." He swallowed a lump in his throat. "God bless you both."

He stumbled on aft, fighting tears. A few yards later, he encountered someone who seemed thoroughly moved by the Strauses- or by something, anyway. "Mr. Ismay?" The chairman of the White Star Line was huddled in his overcoat, sitting on the deck, facing the wall. "Bruce!" Thomas snapped. He didn't respond. In his hopeless blubbering, he kept repeating one word. Thomas dropped to his knees beside Ismay in order to hear:

"Julia… Julia…"

Thomas's heart sank. Julia was Bruce's wife's name. _You poor man._

"BRUCE!" He seized Ismay by the coat lapels. The Englishman was trembling, tears pooling in his brown eyes. "You'll see her again!" Thomas insisted, bracingly. "The rescue ship is coming. For now, we just have to get the boats nice and full!" Ismay's eyes darted over Thomas's face. His hands slowly wrapped around Thomas's own. "We're gonna make it, Bruce! Trust me! Now let's get above deck and make the old Firms proud!"

Gulping furiously, the Englishman nodded. Thomas pulled him to his feet. He kept an arm around Ismay's shoulders as they walked down the promenade. As Ismay's strength returned, the two men broke into a run.

"I'll try and find the captain- you talk people into the boats," Thomas directed as they emerged on boat deck. Murdoch was just starting to load a collapsible at the fore. It looked to be the last boat on starboard side.

Ismay dodged through the crowds with surprising agility. Many husbands and fathers stood still on the deck, some weeping openly as they watched the boats paddle away. Hundreds of others- primarily steerage, with women and children among them- kept heading aft, seeking higher ground as the ship tilted further.

Thomas checked his pocket watch. 1:35. He pushed slowly, cautiously, through the thick crowds. Like sheep being led to slaughter, they were disoriented and unnerved, but not hysterical. In every accent of the English language known to man, along with snippets of French, Italian, Swedish, even Arabic, they all said the same things:

_The boats are gone! …What do we do? …Have you seen Mum? …It's so cold! …Just keep moving! …God help us!_

He found Smith quickly- a miracle. The captain was emerging from the tank room, near one of the vacated lifeboat davits. "Captain!" Smith drifted down the deck, seemingly without hearing Thomas. "_Captain!_" He turned; his blue eyes were dull and blank. "How long until the rescue ship reaches us?"

Thomas's chest heaved as he awaited Smith's reply. Slowly, the captain turned away without giving one.

_NO!_

In a jolt of blind adrenaline, Thomas charged fore down the emptying deck. He slowed ten yards away from Murdoch and the collapsible. "Any more women and children?" the officer hollered.

Ismay steadily replied, "They're all aboard, Mr. Murdoch!"

"_Anyone else, then?"_

Ismay touched the shoulders of some male passengers nearby. "Come on, then!" His tone was jaunty, having recovered that English 'stiff upper lip.' "Come on, do hurry! Hurry along!" They climbed in the boat. Murdoch spun about wildly, looking for more passengers. Finding none, he had his crew prepare the davits.

Ismay looked around as well. His eyes fell on Thomas. The Irishman's face showed unmasked dread. _We're not gonna make it, Bruce._ With one last frantic glance, Ismay did the unthinkable:

He leapt into the descending boat.


	12. In Mercy Given

**XII. In Mercy Given**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film: **The suicide Thomas overhears, his encounter of Jack and Rose, and the stopping of the mantelpiece clock, are from Cameron's _Titanic._

(line)

_Monday, 15 April, 1912_

Dear Helen,

I thought of getting into a boat. I saw some men do so, and I can't begrudge them for it. I want to watch Elba grow into a fine young lady. I want to grow old with you.

But then I thought of the nightmares I would face each night. _Titanic_ is going to kill me either way, my love. I can choose tonight, quick and honourable; or I can choose the next twenty, thirty, even fifty years, being eaten away by a horror that would make your brush with _Futility_ a mere trifle.

I hope you will understand why I made the choice that I did. Pray for me, and tell Elba- always- that her father loved her very much.

I love you, Helen.

Yours,

Thomas

(line)

As he entered the first-class smoking room, Thomas heard a cry up on boat deck: "No, Will!" A gunshot, screams, and a splash.

_It would be quicker._

He pushed the thought out of mind. There would be survivor accounts, after all. The devil take the press, but Thomas couldn't bear the thought of Elba growing up hearing stories of her father dying a coward.

The smoking room was warm and bright. A fire blazed cheerfully in the grate, the chandeliers still glowed, (though they hung at an eerie angle,) and promenade sconces lit the windows from the outside. The tables were littered with half-consumed brandies, and card games in progress, as if all the gentlemen had stepped out only for a moment. The scene washed Thomas in a kind of peaceful denial. With the boats and deck chairs all gone, this would be a good place to try and fill his final moments with pleasant thoughts. He could still do his duty by, at the very least, _not _contributing to the panic above decks.

He wrote to Helen one last time, then took off his lifebelt and tossed it on a sofa near the fireplace. He stood and stared at the painting of Plymouth Harbor, imagining that instead, it was Belfast. He saw them waving to him from the dock: Uncle Will, his gruff exterior not quite veiling his warm pride in Thomas… Mum and Dad, smiling gently, leaning against each other with the comfort and habit of a long-married couple… His brothers and sister, grinning and teasing like children, exaggerating their gestures of greeting to make him laugh…

And Helen, his beautiful Helen, mouthing the words _I love you_… Elba, sitting on her mother's shoulders, clapping her chubby little hands in glee…

A sharp voice broke his reverie. "Wait, wait, wait! Mr. Andrews!"

He was stricken when he saw who it was. "Oh, Rose." _You shouldn't still be here. How I had hoped you would live!_

Rose had somehow managed to rescue Jack, who stood behind her in severed handcuffs. Neither of the youngsters had a lifebelt, and both were soaked to the skin, all the way up to their limp hair. Their faces were ghostly white, their lips purple; Thomas nearly shivered just looking at them. Now that the boats were gone, they were bound to enter that deadly water again. Along with over a thousand other innocent souls… He could only hope that Maggie, or someone, would convince the boats to mount a rescue- and quickly.

She stepped towards him, demanding, "Won't you at least make a try for it?"

_If only I could… But no… _He fought tears. "I'm sorry… that I didn't build you a stronger ship, young Rose."

His apology left her dumbstruck. Jack stepped up and took her by the arm, his eyes on Thomas. "It's goin fast. We have to move."

Thomas returned Jack's eye contact, with a slight, encouraging nod. _There's a good lad, Jack. Don't give up on her. _Jack began to pull Rose away; then Thomas realized there was one last, small way he could try to save her. "Wait." He handed her his lifebelt, with a gentle smile. "Good luck to you, Rose."

Her wide eyes darted from him, to the lifebelt, back to him. "And to you." She took the lifebelt- and then flung her arms around him.

His shock gave way to joy. The way Rose's hands wrapped gently around his shoulders was so much like Elba's. Then, like Elba, her grip began to tighten. He nudged her away, and she did not resist. As she pulled back, her eyes were hurt. All he could do was nod politely. _You don't understand, Rose. If we give in to that, you'll never let go._

As the couple pushed through the revolving doors, Rose turned away from Thomas, but Jack stared back over his shoulder. To the younger man, Thomas silently mouthed, _Thank you._

Then he was alone.

He tried to return his thoughts to pleasant family scenes. With each passing moment, the sounds around him made it increasingly difficult. He was sheltered from most of the noise above deck, though he did overhear more anguished screams, more frequent splashes, and the band still playing in spite of it all. Still, it was the noise of _Titanic _herself that gripped him more. She groaned from the weight of her stern rising out of the water. Thomas had heard iron under physical stress many times before of course, but the complaints of a compressed beam in the yard did not compare to the dying throes of a ship. This was unceasing, incredibly loud and from all directions. The noise invaded Thomas's very being. He was dying, too.

The lights went out. Thomas figured they were gone for good, when a moment later they slowly glowed back to life. _Good heavens, the lads in the engine rooms are steadfast to the end! _He took out his pocket watch to see how long they'd held out. It was 2:10! He never thought they'd make it this far. An instant later, Thomas's spirits deflated again: _The time doesn't matter anymore._

He opened the glass cover on the mantelpiece clock and stopped the hands just past 2:10. If only it were that easy. He wouldn't just stop time, but turn it back.

The thought brought a flood of regrets. _If the bulkheads had gone higher… if we had included that double hull… if there were more lifeboats… if we had slowed down…_

He clung to the mantelpiece, bowed his head and wept. _Over a thousand people… Forgive me, God! For I can't forgive myself!_

The lights flickered again. And again. Brandies toppled off the mantelpiece as the ship angled further. There were long, terrified screams that grew louder, then softer, and ended with a splash. People were losing their grip and plummeting down the promenade. Then the lights went off, one last time.

Thomas didn't think _Titanic_'s agony could get any louder, but then it did. He imagined this was what an earthquake sounded like, the atmosphere becoming noise and chaos itself. In his mind's eye, he saw _Titanic_ from the outside, her foundering illustrated in blueprint form, and he envisioned the physical forces acting upon her. Then he knew what was going to happen.

He was much closer to the water than he previously thought.

"Oh God… Oh God…" His plea was ragged, frantic. Even with the fire before him still burning, the room began to turn cold. "I don't want… to die… in that _cold!" _It was senseless, pure physical dread. He didn't expect God to give him that mercy. It didn't really matter!

The iron moan was joined by the sounds of splintering wood, shattering glass, snapping wires. The very room in which Thomas stood was tearing apart; _Titanic _would now devour her own creator.

He was caught in a dense shower of flying glass shards. His head and hands, exposed, erupted in stabbing pain. A ceiling beam struck him and he lost his footing. _But I don't feel like I'm falling… _

_All the pain is gone!… I'm flying!_

There was one final mercy, after all. Thomas never felt the water's cold.

_There let the way appear, steps unto heav'n;_

_All that Thou sendest me, in mercy giv'n._

_Angels to beckon me, nearer, my God, to Thee_

_Nearer, my God, to Thee; nearer to Thee!_


	13. Young Rose

**XIII. Young Rose (Epilogue)**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Credit to the film:** Basic facts of Rose's life are from Cameron's _Titanic, _when one treasure hunter debriefs the other on Rose Calvert's background in 1996. Details and the children's names are my own creation. _Thomas Andrews: Shipbuilder_, by Shan F Bullock, is a real book. Also, unlike the notes and flashbacks opening all other chapters, the telegram is real.

(line)

_Friday, 19 April, 1912 (telegram from family in New York to Thomas Andrews Sr. in Comber, County Down)_

Interview Titanic's officers. All unanimous Andrews heroic unto death, thinking only safety others. Extend heartfelt sympathy to all.

(line)

On her daily commute between her tenement in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and her waitressing job in Manhattan, Rose passed several bookstores. They were just vamping up for the Christmas 1912 season when a little book appeared in some of their front windows, catching her eye. The title whispered through her mind again and again, until she finally bought a copy with some of her tip money.

_Thomas Andrews: Shipbuilder, _by Shan F. Bullock. It took her two hours to read it- and two weeks to recover. She was flooded with such profound grief, that only Mr. Andrews' own unwillingness to ever skip a day of work, (as mentioned in the biography,) kept her going to her job with a brave smile. She considered sending a letter to the Andrews family to share her sorrow at their loss. The book said that hundreds had already done so.

Only her fear of being found held her back. The letters, when they were from _Titanic _survivors, seemed to all come from first-class passengers or crew. Rose DeWitt Bukater could have written in with her condolences, her praises of Thomas Andrews' dedication and bravery. But Rose DeWitt Bukater had perished in the sinking. It was steerage passenger Rose Dawson who was rescued from the water, a young widow- her husband frozen to death beside her.

As she moved from place to place in search of new work, new friends, and new adventures, Rose would always tuck the biography into the safest pocket of her luggage, where others might place a diary or the family Bible. After New York she wandered to Chicago, then Houston, then Los Angeles. She liked southern California enough to stay awhile. It felt good to never be too cold, and she soon managed to land a few bit parts in the moving pictures.

Soon, Rose's career wasn't the only place where she was getting some attention. A gangly aspiring journalist, a "friend of a friend" type acquaintance named Henry Calvert, asked her out to the moving pictures and then the diner afterwards. It was 1916; Rose had had her share of first dates since losing Jack. Henry's easy humor set him a step above the others, just enough for her to agree to a second date. This time, he took her to the pier, where they drank cheap beer and rode the rollercoaster until they nearly threw up. That's when she decided to really give this Calvert fella a fair chance.

They were still going steady that November, and doing the newspaper crossword over evening coffees at their favorite greasy spoon, when the headline caught her eye. _HMHS BRITANNIC MINED OFF COAST OF KEA, 30 LOST._

"Oh, God."

"Rose?" Henry looked up from 16-across. His spectacles almost slid off his skinny nose. "What is it, doll?"

She scanned the article, then passed it to Henry. As he read, she sank into deepening shock at the loss of _Titanic_'s younger sister in the Great War. Henry folded the paper and sighed. "There's a heavy blow for Great Britain. But what a ship!" he marveled. "Strong and true!"

Rose burst into tears.

"Honey?" Flustered, Henry began searching for reassurances. "It's good news, Rose. Over a thousand aboard and only thirty died. They had more than enough lifeboats. With those bulkheads up to B-deck, she stayed up for an _hour, _even with half her hull exploded!"

"I know." Her voice trembled. He reached for her hand, and she gladly let him take it. "I _know_, Henry, but," she gulped back her tears. "So few lost… _Titanic _should have been the same way."

She didn't tell Henry the full truth. He chalked up her grief to a poetic, sensitive ability to be touched by a tragedy that has nothing to do with oneself. She loved him for his gentle acceptance, and vowed to never mention the Olympic liners again. Jack's death was still a knife through her heart, and no one wants to fall in love with a grieving widow. Henry deserved better than that.

They married in 1925; their friends all said it was "about time." Though Henry initially suggested a seaside honeymoon, they settled on a bed-and-breakfast in the Napa Valley. Rose awoke on their first full day to find Henry in the kitchen, flipping through _Thomas Andrews: Shipbuilder_ and mocking some of the passages to the bed-and-breakfast's owners.

Well, wasn't this just something! Married for twenty hours and now she'd have to get a divorce! Though to Henry's credit, he did stop laughing as soon as he saw the look on Rose's face.

"Where did you get that?" she gasped. She already knew, of course. Although _Titanic_ was still her secret, and she seldom read the biography these days, she still couldn't bear to part with it- not even for a week's vacation. Rose ran back to their room, Henry following. She slammed the door in his face.

"Rose?" he implored. "I'm sorry. I guess he must mean a lot to you… I don't need to know why."

Leaning against the door, Rose closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Henry's father had barraged his mother with suspicions over her every action and motive, for the entirety of their miserable marriage. She knew he was determined to never do that. It was part of why she loved him.

"I'm really sorry, honey. I wasn't making fun of _him_- just the book, I swear. Now… can I come in?"

She sighed and opened the door. Her wiry, energetic intellectual was slouched in the doorway, with a simple expression of hurt in his bespectacled blue eyes. Curiosity got the better of her: "What is it you don't like about the book?" she asked coolly.

He looked nervous. "I don't know if I should tell you that right now…"

"No, I can handle it, Henry." She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Tell me."

He shut the door behind him. "Look, I know Bullock's style, and that's a big part of it; another is that the book is essentially a eulogy. But it's very… rosy. Thomas Andrews was _always _humble and cheerful, the _picture _of health and vigor, he could do _every _job in the yard to perfection and was loved by the workers, small children and animals alike…" Henry rolled his eyes. "He sounds too good to be true."

"What are you saying?" she snapped. "That he wasn't that great a man?"

"No! He was great- but nobody's _that _great. He was a human being, and I'm sure he had fears, and flaws, and, heaven forbid…" Henry smiled shyly. "Maybe the _occasional_ bad day?"

Rose ducked her gaze. Henry had a point. She remembered how she had fumed after what Mr. Andrews said to her in the engine room on that long-ago Sunday afternoon. _How could he be so forward? _She had wondered.

Then again, his desperate honesty, imploring her to save her own life, was a large part of what drove her back to Jack that evening. And if she and Jack had not been reunited, Rose wouldn't have survived. She would have gotten into the boat with Mother and Molly Brown… but she wouldn't have survived.

"Rose?" Henry looked concerned. She sat on the edge of the bed, and he joined her, gently rubbing her shoulder.

Rose looked at their reflection in the dusty mirror above the bureau. A skinny, freckled man in a faded polo shirt and straight trousers, with a perpetual ink smudge on his right pinky. A pretty, slightly plump redhead in a cute new sundress. They were an average, middle-class couple, by no means royalty or even anything special. She smiled slightly. _Perfect._ "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I can't tell you which books to like..."

"Hey! I didn't say I _dislike _it, just that I wish Bullock wrote him a little more human, relatable." He chuckled. "Actually, my favorite part is when the stewardess says Mr. Andrews looked sad and tired one day on _Titanic_, because he missed his home."

"I always liked that part, too," Rose confessed. It felt good to admit that.

"And he longed for his wife." He drew her close. She fell against him as they laid back down on the bed. "_That, _I can relate to."

He kissed her hair. She murmured with pleasure.

"You don't have to tell me everything, Rose. But let's not let things like this come between us, okay?"

(line)

Their daughter was born two years later. Rose retired from acting, and Henry took a teaching job at the high school nearest his native one-horse town of Cedar Rapids, Wisconsin. It was there, on a morning buzzing with cicadas, in September 1935, that Henry nearly dredged _Titanic_ from the ocean of Rose's memories for a third and final time.

"Hey, honey! Come take a look at this. They sold Old Reliable!" Rose came into the kitchen with their morning coffees, and Henry passed her the paper. She scanned it without taking a seat.

"Oh, please tell me she went to those businessmen who want to turn her into a floating hotel…" Rose dropped the paper in shock. "They're _scrapping _her? But they can't do that!" She paced the creaky floorboards. "She's the last Olympic liner left- _living history!_" Her theatrical streak was getting the better of her. She didn't care!

"Well, maybe someone will put up a fight for her," Henry offered. "Old J. Bruce Ismay's pride might get the better of him…?" he shrugged.

She frowned and shook her head. "Ismay's been useless since '13 and he knows it. Retiring back then was the best move he ever made." She stopped and planted her hands on the edge of the rickety kitchen table. "Besides, now that Cunard's bought out White Star, they can throw out the old ships like you throw out half-finished stories!"

A shocked pause. Henry's expression darkened. "Was that really called for, Rose?"

She winced. "No. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean it."

He looked down at his scrambled eggs and toast. She thought he was sulking, and really couldn't blame him, when suddenly he said cheerfully, "Well, at least Harland & Wolff's still doing well- better than most businesses these days, from what I hear. There's that."

"Yes," she smiled. "There's that."

She sat down and looked out at the willow tree in the side yard, trying to root her thoughts to solid land again. Fragments of dreams and memories overtook her.

The joyful, heady atmosphere in the steerage commons, the big drums' rhythm putting life into her very bones.

The beautiful, futile arc of the distress flares against the empty night, and the agony that seized her body each time she plunged into that water.

Mr. Andrews' brokenhearted apology, and his strong, gentle embrace. Was hers the last human touch he had ever felt?

Molly Brown's brave forced cheer, now legendary, as she and Rose's mother boarded a lifeboat: "You're next, Rose, darlin!"

The ecstasy of Jack's bare skin against her own…

As if on cue, to distract Rose, her two children scampered into the kitchen. Their eight-year-old chased her little brother right into Rose's arms. "_Mother!_ He doodled in my grammar book!"

"I was _practicing,_" the six-year-old clarified. "I wanna be ready for school." Today would be his first day. Rose gave him a gentle pat on the back.

"Maggie, you can erase your brother's writing. But _after _you do something about your hair," she instructed. As usual, Maggie allowed reading books or climbing trees to win out as pastimes over caring for her waist-length blonde tangles. If they still lived in California rather than conservative Wisconsin, Rose would have gotten Maggie a boyish bob cut years ago out of sheer convenience.

Maggie put her hands on her hips. "Mother! Why must I always truss myself up like a porcelain doll before I can even-"

"Maggie," Henry warned from behind the newspaper. "Obedience, dear."

She sighed. "Alright. _Yes, Mother._" With that she stomped off. Rose hid a giggle. Troublesome as it could be, she adored her daughter's indomitable spirit. Nonetheless, she secretly doted on her little boy ever so slightly more.

"Are you nervous?" she asked. He nodded. "Don't be."

"What if I'm not smart enough?"

It was merely a test question; the boy knew he was bright. "You can already read your sister's old primers, list all the months of the year and count to a hundred! You'll be fine," Rose reassured him. "Just don't give up on anything; always keep making a try for it." He nodded in agreement. Perhaps now he would voice his _real _worry.

He ducked his head, staring up at her with wide, worried eyes. "What if the other kids don't like me?"

"How could they ever not like you?" she demanded. "You're brave, and playful- and so kind, too." _Such a gentle spirit… just like your namesake, _she thought. "If you show your playmates at least half the kindness you show us all at home, you'll get along great."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." She gave him a peck on the cheek. He was just getting to the age where boys squirm sheepishly about that stuff, and it made her chuckle. "Look at you, growing up already!

"But you'll always be mine, Tommie."


	14. References

**XIV. Acknowledgements & References**

**Thank you** to all my readers, including the quiet ones. I am flattered by every click on my fanfic pages. :-) (Gosh, I hope that didn't sound too creepy…)

**But special thanks** to the readers who give of their time, energy, and thoughts to review! You make my day and you challenge me to always do my best as a writer. So thanks…

**Spirit of the Scottish Kelpie:** For being there from the beginning, and being _incredibly _helpful and supportive with so many aspects of this story! Thank you for your friendship, and for all the messages- both serious and fangirling- we've exchanged over the summer. Also, thanks for the suggestions of authentic Northern Irish last names for when Thomas goes "in cognito" in chapter 7. :-D Anyone who hasn't checked out "The Thomas Andrews Affair," I encourage you to do so, it's awesome!

**Elna11, riddermark and Courtney Daisy:** I've greatly appreciated the sweet encouragements!

**Ms Gatsby:** Thank you for my very first review, and for making me stop and think about my dialogue; I kept the accented spellings only in situations where characters' accents would be stronger.

**The Inimitable Enigma Cypher:** Your review of chapter 11 is probably the highest compliment I've gotten on the whole story! Seriously, I was floored.

**Ograndebatata:** Thank you for some wonderful new insights and for your incredible attention to detail, both in terms of historic research and in terms of how I humbly attempt to weave this story.

Film Sources

_A Night To Remember. _Dir. Roy Ward Baker. Perf. Laurence Naismith, Tucker McGuire, Frank Lawton, and Michael Goodliffe. The Rank Organisation, 1958.

_Titanic. _Dir. James Cameron. Perf. Kate Winslet, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kathy Bates, Jonathan Hyde, and Victor Garber. Paramount Pictures, 1997.

Print Sources

Bullock, Shan F. _Thomas Andrews: Shipbuilder. _Dublin and London: Maunsel & Company, Ltd. 1912.

Eaton, John P., & Haas, Charles A. _Titanic: Triumph and Tragedy (2__nd__ edition)._ New York: W. W. Norton & Company. 1995.

Marsh, Ed. W. (Photos by Douglas Kirkland). _James Cameron's Titanic._ New York: Harper Collins. 1997.

Music Sources

Horner, James. "Titanic: 4-CD Collector's Anniversary Edition." Sony Masterworks, 2012. CD.

Wikipedia Pages On…

1910s in Fashion

Comparison of American and British English

Eternal Father, Strong to Save

Futility, or The Wreck of the Titan

Harland & Wolff

Hiberno-English

HMHS Britannic

J. Bruce Ismay

Margaret Brown

RMS Olympic

RMS Titanic

Sinking of the RMS _Titanic_

Titanic (1997 film)

The Grand Staircase of the RMS _Titanic_

Thomas Andrews (shipbuilder)

White Star Line

William Pirrie

Other Internet Sources

_Encyclopedia Titanica _(multiple pages of this fantastic site were very useful in my research!)

Fashionencyclopedia . com: 1900-1918

Geo F. Trumper (company website)

IMDB (The Internet Movie Database): _Titanic_

IMSDB (The Internet Movie Script Database): _Titanic (1997 draft), Written by James Cameron_

Lutheran-hymnal . com: "My Hope Is Built On Nothing Less"

News . Cincinnati . com: "'Titanic' Actors Sailed Into Film History." April 5, 2012.

_Titanic-Titanic . com_ (multiple pages)

Youtube: "Spooky Titanic Disaster Premonitions & Predictions." Uploaded by titanicstories, 3/29/2011

Youtube: Titanic: Birth of a Legend. Uploaded by evilwarcow, 8/29/2011

Youtube: "Thomas Andrews leaves Windsor avenue to set sail on Titanic." Uploaded by OfficialIrishFA, 4/3/2012

Youtube: "Thomas Andrews- Titanic's Designer." Uploaded by titanicstories, 6/9/2011

Youtube: "Titanic / We Waited Too Long." Uploaded by VeritasFilia, 12/26/2010

Youtube: "Titanic Boat 6- Deleted scene." Uploaded by william1123456789, 6/8/2011

Youtube: "Where Titanic Was Built." Uploaded by titanicstories, 5/24/2011


End file.
